| It is the mind, which creates the world about us
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| And even though we stand side by side
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| My eyes will never see what is beheld by yours
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| My heart won’t respond to your touch
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| Out of the caverns of the pain
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| Like a child from the womb, stillborn
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| Like a ghost from the tomb
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| I arise and unbuild it again
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| We don’t see things as they are
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| We see them as we are
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| And all that we see or seem to be
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| Is but a dream within a dream
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| I see life blurred and shallow every day by day
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| In this world’s theater in which I stay
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| Three Death gently descends, from spheres up high
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| Staring into my cold and humid eyes
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| You’re closing your eyes, try turning your head
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| Away from the gloom, trying to forget
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| But when I start to laugh, she mocks
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| And when I cry she laughs…
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| And hardens evermore her heart
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| But when I start to laugh, she mocks
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| And when I cry she laughs…
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| All things come to the those who wait
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| I say these words to make me glad
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| But something answers, soft and sad
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| They come… but often come too late
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| There Death gently descends, from spheres up high
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| Staring into my cold and humid eyes
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| You’re closing your eyes, try turning your head
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| Away from the gloom, trying to forget
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| But something answers, soft and sad
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| They come… but often come too late
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| Cause I am sick of this way of life
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| As life is sick of the way we pretend
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| But I have walked with Death hand in hand
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| And Death’s own hand is warmer than my own!
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| All things come to those who wait
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| I say these words to make me glad
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| But something answers, soft and sad
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| They come… but often come too late |