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David Chalmers: Fragments of consciousness

The New York Review of Books

Poetry 180

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« Metamorphosis | Main | That dumb old bird there »

When I was young I could dance

When I was young I could dance
Now I sit and watch
The leaves play in the wind
It never gets old
It is the same wind
That brings you to me
And one day
Will take me away. 
I will be waiting for you
I will be dancing.

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