Cymbals Eat Guitars
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If I should return like I once did Animals will mark me with brown infant eyesThe same eyes whose lids I kissed the high grass in which they sit Is shoulder length and hanging on your forehead A week is four years in ancient hive mindsAnd soon those eyes begin to well upYour shallow grave concealed by fragrant leaf pilesBlack glistening bird eyes averted
From Letras Mania