The stairs to heaven have long been rotten
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Pinocchio has done so much that there are no logs
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And there is nothing to drown the casemates of gentlemen and constables
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Where they hide from the growing anger of the people
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The girl's hymens are torn more and more early
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Less and less ardently ready to follow the idea of shooting
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Stronger burnt bears from the family tree
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Weaker native faith, time crumbles like sand in the wind
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Shards of decency will break under the heels of preludes
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Beauty will sink into chaos and noise, and simplification of melodies will come
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Cracks will envelop the frescoes in the rotunda forgotten by the passer-by
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We will move further away from the soul and come close to the flesh
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Consistent with the laws of God to him along the way
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Breaks his legs until he bleeds
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Exhausted will fall, and so help will not be expected from him
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Death's robes are black, she was approaching the thresholds
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Paths overgrown, not daring to fight back
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Cold soulless roads
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I believe
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Troubles will pass, and the holy empire will wake up
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The sun will rise
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Still I believe
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Troubles will pass, and the holy empire will wake up
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The sun will rise
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A dilapidated temple, the body illuminates the soul with a dim beam
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We put the deed in our chest behind the deed,
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But at the end of the path the chest is empty
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We want sadness, we want to howl in despair,
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But not capable of feelings
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Life beats to smithereens sweepingly, with a crunch
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Our muscles will not falter
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We build sand castles stubbornly in the pouring rain
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We dig dugouts, clogging our nails with turf, sweat flows from us in a stream
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God was given to us, but we mocked, nailed our hands
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Now we burn candles, asking him, we silently stand and wait
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We do not look at the sun, we believe that we will go blind
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Although they did not see themselves
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We have enough windows with cobwebs and horseflies
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Behind the burnt curtains
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We are flattened in a meridian rigidly squeezed between the poles
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We could smash all enemies to smithereens,
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But they didn’t come out to fight, they pissed
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It's all over, slashed with the razor of politics
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Broken by everyday life, behind the wall is a wall
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The solution is saturated with a sugary stench
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And behind the slabs of the slab, and the country sings
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The songs are obscene, and we are always open for what is not important
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On the glorious past, as if on a thread, we knit braids of new events
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I believe
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Troubles will pass, and the holy empire will wake up
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The sun will rise
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Still I believe
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Troubles will pass, and the holy empire will wake up
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The sun will rise |