As I wind down the pines
its the lines on your face
playing on your face
Without thinking so much
as abandoning thought
I went through open country
over water meadows streams
lakes and wires and roosts in reeds
to a nest in the hole of
this dead
tree.
To play without stopping or pause
not for silence not for applause
not without thinking
and thinkings abandoning thought
As I wind down the pines
its the lines on your face
playing on your face
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