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wear the ivy upon your hair
too long I have waited
amongst the debris of despair

These gusts of breeze
stems out of the brook
for miles I have walked
and years, it took

Your streets talk to me
with the old familiar tongue
a quick slip into the past
and a thousand bells have rung

The child has grown to be
a man of thirty-three
still longing for your touch
still a longing to be free



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