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, meadows, streams,
lakes and wires and roosts in reeds
to a nest in the hole oft 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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