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The real truth about it is my kind of life’s no better off
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I’d like to lie in the cool grass
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It is March and black dust falls out of the books
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Here is March again.
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The clock reads the time
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They’re perfectly visible this evening,
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If I were born in Chartres
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Starting here, what do you want to remember?
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Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
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even the night / was warm and elastic, nothing had changed,
