| Thoughts are spinning their inescapable threads
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| transforming us cruelly into marionettes.
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| Everything I feel is pain
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| and the Devil holds us in his hands.
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| Buried desperately in my chest
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| a rose for myself and a rose for the dead.
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| A serenade of tears, lifelessly
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| we feel the beat, though no orchestra is there to be seen…
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| I am you, I am you — you are me,
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| what I am, what are you — who are we?
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| What is truth and what is lie,
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| who are you and what am I?
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| In a cradle of mercy we are sleeping
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| the half-sleep of oblivion.
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| No holy water could wash away our faults
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| nor do benediction purify our unclean souls.
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| The gates remain locked
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| for the wingless children of wrath,
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| so long ago splintered and trodden down
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| us children of glass…
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| Please, my Lord, extinguish the light,
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| the illumination hurts my eyes.
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| My choice was wrong, so wrong:
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| truly everything is pain…
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| We are crying with wolves
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| like stone we are sleeping with the dead;
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| soon we’ll be gone and you’re left
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| the instrument… |