Mon journal extime
His hands hide inside a sleeveAnd little feet play with the ground beneath himWhile up in the sky is where he wants to beTime will flyAnd the wind plays with himThe night will give him its charmWhile he walks homeHis head's up in a cloudHe feels his pores fill up with fresh airAnd there is no doubtThat one day he will beWhere the eye of his telescope has already beenNight will passBut he's a lot fasterNo one can do him any harm
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