| There I stand, in a wood of trees pale as if bones
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| Eroded by nefarious winds
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| Haunted by their barking echoes
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| Were doubts to arise that God retreats slowly from this world
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| Which until now renewed itself with every dawn
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| Nurtured by holy breath:
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| Behold those mountains
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| The rocks of which turn to ghosts
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| And those roots petrified in thirst
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| Vainly defying the opaque silence of hollow rivers
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| And bury your doubts in a profane grave
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| The greatest proof of justice and mercy
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| God’s supreme goodness
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| And his loving caress
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| Inhabit these abrasive pillars of dust
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| The black veil at the horizon
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| Soon to hush in velvet silence
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| Your daughter’s last breath
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| Crowning you the depositary
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| Of ten thousand indignities:
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| The eminent king of a world in dismay
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| Every singularity is filed down
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| By this continuous ochre stream
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| The only memory and existence
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| Those you cherished ever had
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| And ever could have
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| The memory of the heart
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| Is overcome by the drought of the heart:
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| A desert with no life but scorpions
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| Coming as a swarm, as a flood
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| With an abundance of deadly stings…
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| One for every remembrance
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| One for every comforting echo of the past
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| For blithe days of hope turned sour |