| In the swamp by the lakeside
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| In the leaden skies' unrest
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| A heart lay solely beating
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| At an eldritch behest
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| Listen them sing when the moon’s ablaze!
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| Where sombre trees bow grandly upon dark gates of moss
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| He reached out for a secret that should have remained lost
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| …He hailed his grave
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| Heed this tale of him who heard the lunatic refrain
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| Now consumed by the black earth — never to be seen again
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| From his dying womb his foul remembrance crawled the firth
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| A roiling plague, his shadow thick — miasmal afterbirth
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| Black miasma over fields of red
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| Condemned to contain the virulent curse in him;
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| His asylum inside the lungs of townsmen
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| Black death to make them revel and sing
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| A hundred-voice hymn dying
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| Spawning from the water
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| Stirring from the spring of bones
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| Leaking from the cracks of earth
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| The pestilential fog enthroned
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| In the echoes of their dying chant
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| In the dirges of their souls nearing death
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| At the dawn of their new renaissance
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| Lowered lies the conqueror’s wreath
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| Black death over fields of red
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| …And their chant goes on and on and on… |