They say he will come in the clouds
Or might have already arrived
So every morning I wait to see
Where his feet are touching down
Like the impression fish leave
In water there then gone
Or one of his legs of light
Plunges through a boggy cloud
And he might waver there
For a few visible moments
I think he's waiting also
For the last possible sunrise
Though the suspense is killing me
I'm still counting on every cloud
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