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with a birdcage over my head
playing the flute with half a mind as the road is trodden underfoot?
Should I contemplate my navel
Or just go about my worldly business?
'Cause I've got strong suspicions,
And confirming them is a risky task.
I don't know, maybe I've just got my head
way above the clouds
Or maybe it's buried under miles and miles of stone.
The songs of the birds are as smoke in the rain,
And the light snows falling are as the scales of a million butterflies' wings,
amongst the stars.