A stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road
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It’s the rest of a stump, it’s a little alone
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It’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun
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It is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun
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The oak when it blooms
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A fox in the brush, the knot in the wood
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The song of a thrush, the wood of the wind
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A cliff, a fall, a scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all
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It’s the wind blowing free, it’s the end of a slope
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It’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope
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And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
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It’s the end of all strain, it’s the joy in your heart
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The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone
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The beat of the road, a slingshot stone
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A fish, a flash, a silvery glow
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A fight, a bet, the range of a bow
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The bed of the well, the end of the line
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The dismay in the face, it’s a loss, it’s a find
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A spear, a spike, a point, a nail
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A drip, a drop, the end of the tale
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A truckload of bricks, in the soft morning light
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The shot of a gun in the dead of the night
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A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump
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It’s a girl, it’s a rhyme, it’s a cold, it’s the mumps
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The plan of the house the body in bed
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And the car that got stuck, it’s the mud, it’s the mud
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A float, a drift, a flight, a wing
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A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring
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And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
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It’s the end of all strain, it’s the joy in your heart
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A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe
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It’s a thorn in your hand or a cut on your toe
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A point, a grain, a bee, a bite, a blink, a buzzard
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A sudden stroke of night
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A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain
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A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain
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A pass in the mountains, a horse and a mule
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In the distance the shelves, grow three shadows of blue
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And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
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It’s the promise of life in your heart, in your heart
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A stick, a stone, the end of the load
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The rest of the stump, a lonesome road
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A sliver of glass, a life, a sun
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A night, a death, the end of the run
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And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
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It’s the end of all strain, it’s the joy in your heart |