| «One does not become enlightened by
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| imagining figures of light,
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| but by making the darkness conscious.»
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| On the golden throne of skulls
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| In the glass house of our dreams
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| Sits the one who rules it all
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| Oblivious, denied, forgotten
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| Self-appointed king
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| Hollow gaze of his tired eyes
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| Focused, on the mirrors on the walls
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| Drowning in reflections' endless maze
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| Restless, always searching for the I
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| Through the dusty libraries
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| Of ancestral wisdom
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| Through the riddles
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| Of suspected thruths
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| Diving
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| Into the black and back again
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| With hope there is no hope
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| Into the light to see there is none
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| No concession
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| Not a single spark to be found
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| «Who looks outside, dreams;
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| Who looks inside, awakes.»
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| Let him cry out loud in despair
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| Let him dance to his own requiem
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| Let the bow slit his wrists
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| As the violin weeps
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| Misguided by the ego’s treacherous call
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| Lost in the labyrinth of countless reveals
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| Rebutting themselves one after another
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| Disguided as promises of enlightenment
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| All I saw was nothing but madness
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| All we shall see is nothing but darkness
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| All we shall leave is nothing but failures
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| All we shall gain is nothing but faceless
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| For no ocean of stars awaits
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| Nor the womb of newborn possibilities
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| But the shattering mirror itself
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| Obscure void of misguided thoughts
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| When darkness is conscious
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| All horrors end
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| No figures of light
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| When mirrors shatter |