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A groan of dark wood throughout my daring soul |
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Rides like a wild hunt and falls like mountain stream of thoughts |
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A gloom that stole the soil emorisoned buried land inside itself |
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Strangled in embrace of dusk without fresher gulp of life |
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Its palms upon the tremor of the rind without a vile call of weakness and pain |
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The better taste of blood and chill of death, the proud songs of wind |
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Branches the lands of dead they seize its lead with fears |
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Deah is not dreadful while you are young |
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Or when being old you want to pass away |
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Still his lands reak out for the stars searching for the Thread of Skjuld |
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Be you the winged one your fate is not to for rot in grave |
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But he spits poison afraid of his own shadow |
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Sign of Enuy is a true stigma of egoism |
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Always drunk of false optimism |
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Death and vice its lesson it missed |
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A call of madness a heap of misunderstandings |
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Its morals and principle are left to rot in dirt |
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One gathers mud he's living fast |
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Smashing hands to blood from the senceless spite |
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One stakes himself and throws a coin |
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While staring at the gun one looks into her eyes |
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One finds defence beneath worm's ominous star |
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He feeds its blood to parasite poisoned buried in the dust of time |
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And wind still howls against this silence he steals the weerings from the ancient woods |
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When Lady Sorrow kiss the graveyards, she feeds the burial beast with the wine of blood |
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And the devil still laughs and hisses greedy breaks his fangs in the malicious grins |
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Replacing with daydreams the likeness of life for creature that feeds upon the lifes |
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While someone is fighting the other is just spitting there are also the ones laughing at them both |
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One losts himself in the search for passion another one shall bury his love in crypts of inmost fears |
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Death with a Scythe would banish hope rip open a rotten soul with storms |
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A desert demon shall die by drops of rain and feed the lost soul with its poisoned blood |