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One by one the minutes tick
like grains of dropping sand
in shapely brass and crystal,
or sure and steady hands.
And no one can slow the pendulum,
no one can speed its swing.
If this is not the night
it must be raining.

The dance floor now is empty,
The band has packed it in.
Too late to escape the ghosts
but it’s almost morning.
She takes his outstretched hand
until the night is done,
though no one can slow the pendulum
nor rush the rising sun.

In the flicker of the flame
the candle turns to sea.
Waves of spiced vanilla wax
those waning memories.
While the moon hangs high in indigo,
avec papier bateau
we navigate the Seine.
Too soon the morning.

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