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A Wooden Song

Last night I dreamed a loss never gotten over with...
My wooden horse ...
Twine and the sound of little wheels ...
The ringing of Lazarus Saturday...
Following me my faithful Sancho ...
In my quest for unrest ...
 
I also dreamed about my first guitar*
That, similar to some night lady
From Southern Amsterdam ...
From her window ... seduces me, a kid,...
Tempting me with deadly sins ...
 
Where did it grow, the tree it was carved out from?
Did anyone ever kiss underneath it?
How come it is the source of all my songs?
Did the one who chipped it away know that?
 
Where did that tree grow, atop of which hills?
Did the same rain water us when we both were young?
Who trimmed its branches, his mother bless his soul?
Whose hand burned its leaves in the fall I'd like to know...
 
I then dreamed a bed, all covered in lace ...
A mischievous game of fire ...
Shutters down...
On the headboard - a rose in intarsia...
Underneath which we cuddled ...
 
I dreamed a coffin, black, with silver revetment ...
November ... Mist ...
And a quartet of dear faces ...
A canoe in the middle of a harbor wet with rain ...
To sail me away into eternity...
 
Where did that tree grow, which winds was it exposed to?
Did someone mourn someone underneath?
Why did thunder avoid striking it, mother of Peter ?
Who spat in his hands and fell it?
 
My dear and only one ... why did you wake me up?
I was so close to the underside of time...
A tree is hiding in my chest...
Where is something going to sprout up from that seed I'd like to know...
 
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