from the songs album Ian Anderson: The Secret Language Of Birds
Pick up my wings and fly
Into a constable sky.
Look down on the world and try
To make you out on the distant ground.
Lonely toy in a lost toy-town.
Suspended in spiral sounds---
Sounds of circular breathing.
I'm a kite on a silver thread.
Daring lightning to strike me dead.
Harsh echoes of things you said
Banished me to a thinner space
With unholy ghosts of your bedroom face.
Hands cupped to my ears to place
The sound of circular breathing.
Matchbox cityscape below----
I watch lowry matchstick figures go.
Caught in the timeless flow of discreet silence.
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