| Blessed are the poor in spirit
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| For they have but a low awareness of existing
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| To gauge the depth of life leads to find nothingness
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| Then let us place among those who don’t look for
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| Anything
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| Who blind themselves to not disappear
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| And the disgust with reality will become bearable
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| Blessed are the deceased children
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| For they will never know disillusion
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| Of a life that is not worthy
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| Of the promises of childhood
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| Living in the moment they have died
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| Innocent and ignorant
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| Without projecting into useless dreams
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| Devastated by labour and the presence of others
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| Blessed are the stillborn
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| For they haven’t learnt anything
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| The knowledge of this world leads
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| To glimpse its vacuity
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| And takes us away from chaos that was our cradle
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| Let us deny the world of others
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| Let us deny everything
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| Let us kill ourselves and go back to chaos
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| Birth is not the supreme good, I curse it!
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| Let us flee from it to forget this scourge
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| This evil behind us and not before
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| That should cause grief
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| For it has thrown us out of chaos
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| We should have never left
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| I detest this mortal shell that wastes away day by day
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| All crippled from birth compared to excellence
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| We are nothing and adorn ourselves with artifacts
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| Becoming a void decorated with grotesque
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| Profoundly thwarted, deceived by life for here
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| This is no love, but a narcissistic desire of seduction
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| There is no good but a cult of ephemeral beauty
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| And no great dream that be realized
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| I miss this moment before I was born
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| Looking forward to returning to chaos |