In the counting of taste buds
A new season is in bloom
The flowers of flavour have blossomed
Like Spring has stepped into a room
The long dark night of winter is over
The passing of the year
Death has claimed his last victim
What finger pointed, which had made the fear?
But fear made the man,
if ever the man made fear
It was left like a dripping tap
to torture a restless ear
In the cutting and the pasting
the documents were forged
And I passed over the border
Without the life on which I had gorged
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