| There’s an obscure place in the sky
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| holding momories of what really occurs
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| Nobody knows where it is, not even God,
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| and its gate is lost in the mist.
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| There’s no bright praying, nor your name’s sound.
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| It holds the shapes, shapes of souls,
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| the dead zone in the sky.
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| There’s no bright praying, no name’s sound.
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| It holds the shapes, shapes of ghosts.
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| The dead zone in the sky.
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| The past of the ones going there will be erased,
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| not found any more.
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| There, the final space where some lives
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| will succeed in dying, becoming eyes.
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| There you’ll become silent death
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| living invisible as God himself.
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| There, in the final space where some lives
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| will succeed in dying, becoming eyes. |