Had me believe it was a Sunday,
she moved with such a reverence.
It somewhat leads me from a fray.
How I clung to her day by day:
She's happy but she's crying, how absurd;
the eagles bring her her supper.
How absurd. She likes but dislikes love,
but loves in return. How absurd.
The pleasure from her whispers, I would gladly die lives for;
she does not boast a tear when her sorrow comes with fear.
Like sunsets in Paris, and her lovers, too,
nothing does compare to you.
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