poor and pure

i can feel warmth

radiating from someplace

like my centre

it is all i have to give

so demure

walking on deep, fast water far away

from any kind of place

you'd want to live

while she sings about

how everything is fine

trapped under these yellow lights

as the snow falls cold on her face

melting and running down like

tears from her glass eyes

something my dad would always say

'it'd bring a tear to a glass eye'

and usually he was talking about

cutting up onions

our lives are exactly the same

when it comes to

the way the story goes

the differences are in

the way the story's told

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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