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Some night when you are deep asleep'
And breezes drift among the trees,
A Saints quiet hand
Will open books of memories.
And you will read what is written there;
Relive the past, recall the dead;
But on waking , you won't remember
A single thing you did or said.
A Saints quiet hand
Will close the books before you read
With open eyes. The past is past.
And memories are kin to dreams.
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