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In the gardens perched on the sky |
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The ones where snakes sing lullabies |
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I met a man who spoke to me |
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A dead man hanging from a tree |
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He craned his neck and whispered this |
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"Perfection is the great abyss |
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Leave now lest you share my fate |
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A ghost dangling at heaven's gate" |
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Why should I fear paradise? |
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I lived free of mortal vice |
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So I trudged on past the sycamores |
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And stood before the pearly doors |
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Through the bars I saw the fields |
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The stars mere cogs in ox cart wheels |
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The earth a pebble in a stream |
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But not one human to be seen |
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Undeterred I gripped the latch |
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I pulled but it came unattached |
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Despite my rage, the gates stood firm |
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Then grew so hot I smelled flesh burn |
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I ran back injurted to the groves |
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And washed my wounds in waterfalls |
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As I bathed I heard the groans |
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Of voices wrapped in funeral pall |
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Count leaves dangling from a branch |
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Thus numbered bodies overhead |
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Specters moaning for another chance |
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To escape the orchard of the dead |
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An empty noose caressed my neck |
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The way my first love had |
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A soothing feeling on my neck |
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To forget the good and bad |
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To forget the ones who hurt you |
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To forget the ones you hurt |
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To forget the hate all men accrue |
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When their feet still touch the dirt |