All calculations set to one side;
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The inevitable Descent from Heaven,
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A visitation of memories and a seance of rhythms
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Invades my house, my head,
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And the world to mind.
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A horse leaps forward on suburban turf,
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Past planted fields and streches of woods
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Misty with carbonic plague.
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A wretched theatrical woman, somewhere in the world,
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Sighs after an improbable indulgence.
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Desperadoes lie dreaming of storm, and of wounds and debauch.
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Along small streams the little children sit,
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Stifling their curses.
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Let us turn once more to our studies,
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To the noise of insatiable movement
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That forms and ferments in the masses.
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-----------------
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Youth
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Dead Can Dance |