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| trade winds blow on my face rain clouds tell me it may be stormy your look tells another story So tell me from which distant lands you've touched the sands oh how nice It seems my day is weary autumn's breath slides slow The elders of Oak tell stories, above, beyond, and below So tell me how has this come to pass my prophecy, your alas. and then we'll tell the moon. Wilder eyes have told stories fit for kings, lurid bards with flutes and ale sing to supple creatures under the sea rain cloud come back to me rain cloud come back to me my rainy day sunshine | |
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