round and round we go,
faster and faster we spin,
the beat of the fiddle
making our hearts grow light,
the flute ringing out
like a lost and dear old friend;
ah these days
will last forever,
for they are all that matter,
sweeter
than the sweetest wine,
soft and tender
as the fairest young lasses
lips,
for surely we have passed
this way before;
if only in a dream.
.
.
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