| In the night of my final sacrifice I sent my soul
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| Into the vast and fathomless unknown to find a word
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| A word, that indicates the beyond.
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| It came back later and spoke:
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| «I am myself heaven and hell!»
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| Sculptured in time as another chapter of life
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| Sharp are the thorns of the roses, which lay dank upon me For too long I knew that I had to arrive
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| Yet destination isn’t as linear as humanity
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| Touch the feeling — touch the soul
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| Touch the morning dew and see the glamour
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| In my stark eyes reflecting
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| The icon of a setting in a serene summer
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| So many flowers give away to mystery and loneliness
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| Their subtle perfume and their indifference
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| So much jewelry’s forgotten in the soil, in darkness
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| But who dares to tread the silent meadows
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| That lie beyond the mirror of one’s self?
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| Who dares to reach the phantoms of one’s heart?
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| To behold the murderer of life and art?
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| And what is death?
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| What gives birth?
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| What sells good or has no worth,
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| When everything you feel is cold?
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| Why am I? |
| Who’s this hand?
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| Whose decisions I can’t comprehend…
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| But isn’t history foretold?
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| There’s a tide… in the affairs of men
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| Which, taken of it’s flood, leads on to fortune
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| But all the voyage of their life
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| Is bound in shallows and miseries…
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| But if you desire to see the light…
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| As it truly is, clear and bright
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| You must move — back into the shadows |