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Passions will part to a strange melody. As fires will sometimes burn cold. Like petals in the wind, We're puppets to the silver strings of souls, of changes.

I don't believe in an interventionist God But I know, darling, that you do But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him Not to intervene when it came to you Not to touch a hair on your head To leave you as you are And if He felt He had to direct you Then direct you into my arms

And you have never been in love, Until you've seen the dawn rise, Behind the home for the blind