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After the Movie

A cry comes again from the pavilion.
I was that nurse and that civilian,
I was the song in the carillon.

She sat on a tree trunk; no, a boulder.
I was the heart inside the soldier,
that broken arm—that hand, that shoulder.

Night which is moonless, melancholy.
I was the man who was extraordinary.
But who really knows the real Billy Connolly?