As I wind down the pines It's the lines on your face Playing on your face.
Without thinking so much As abandoning thought I went through open country Over water meadow streams Lakes and wires and roosts in reeds To a nest in the hole of This dead Tree.
To play without stopping or pause Not for silence not for applause Not without thinking And thinking's abandoning thought.
As I wind down the pines It's the lines on your face Playing on your face.
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