| Hanging down from the ceiling … the old pendulum now rests,
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| Time stands still … — like iron — … in the house of the dead.
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| Our fragile souls lie weeping, sealed in sleep and balls of lead,
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| All flowers here are dust, but we can still recall their scent.
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| In filth, decay and disrelish the leg-less man lay kneeling,
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| Weeping petrified, out of his mind … — half buried, yet still breathing.
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| His lips are soft like powder and so cold … colder than snow;
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| Mingled with the dust he fell, all paralysed by flesh and bone.
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| «Forgive us, please, for we’re long fallen»,
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| Shivering carcass shuns the light,
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| Ancient bodies' fallen heaven, a dark star in a fallen sky.
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| «Flow my tears !», the angel said,
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| He forced a smile than bowed his head,
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| How much he wished that he could die … -
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| Tore his old wings off with a sigh. |