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Dreaming of sounds made of whale songs and water

Of visions through lenses of old Pentax cameras

And softness of skin that is yours that I hold

And I'm dreaming from heights above small kitchen tables

Where answers from elders bust open the ages

To interpret the words that are yours that I hold

Am I old, am I blossoming, bellowing or bold

Am I caught in a fairy tale nobody told

Where my pages are turning, they're dog-eared with folds

And they're writing themselves in the cold