When the Woman Plays the Guitar

When the woman plays the guitar I hear the sounds of sopranos singing, coming from high up in the Andean hills.

When the woman plays the guitar I see it rain lilacs in Spain, see the rivulets of ravens rushing with a great quietness through crimson sky.

When the woman plays the guitar I smell the sweet breath of a basset puppy, smell the green spring grass in Tennessee, can tell you how high up it is to heaven.

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