“I know where the lightning comes from”
And “not you choose the mystery, but the mystery chooses you”
I hear in a dream that like a fog
Spreads over green hills.
Down the hill, close to the sea
Lays a beautiful town
Full of marvelous houses
And warm lazy parks
Full of city folk.
There are churches and shops and stations
For buses and trams
That run and mark the passing of Time –
Of hours, of minutes
Of middays and midnights.
And on Sundays there is a market,
Just like in the old days
Where freaks and clowns
Sell their stories
To entertain rich and bored.
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