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If only my words were true and swans danced on mirrored glass, visions of scent wafting there. If honeysuckle grew in fields of smiles and dew of kisses all the while. If only beauty dared to grace your wiles and crochet love, like harp strings, on halos. There would be no need for dreams, or me to write sad songs of swans and psalms. If only, I would open my eyes.