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they say they play jazz – or so they say; more kenny g, not Bird who’s soaring,
’cause that’s what they heard; in pink silks, in morning mist, at daybreak, all splendor,
at twilight, in indigo, round and round, I go so deep in a dizzy, and now She’s saying
with Her back turned, all this and heaven; primally perfect – all this Jazz.

© Chagall 2015

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