| Stood there leaning to the city moon
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| Casting silhouettes tall to grip her white rooms
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| The black-clad voyeur in his black-clad masque
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| In the serpentine sun of tragedy basked
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| Stood there cursing at the soul-dead mass
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| With their fabled illusions, the vain dreams that passed
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| Splinters of a life rushing by in the whirl
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| Alone, silent warrior in a fantasy world
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| He cried for night
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| But night could not come
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| So, swept in the shroud
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| Of misanthropia he went away
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| And fed the empty galleries
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| With the artifacts of the black rain
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| Sunken into the shadows
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| With a dry, sardonic smile
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| He made the footprints a part of his heart
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| To rouse a sacred confrontation
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| Stood there carving on the monument to lies
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| Digging of the Earth, making friends with the soil
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| As the all-mother rises and bares her bleeding thighs
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| He disappears into her cold, icy womb |