| As it snowed, the efforts of his toil gave in
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| To a white, crystal veil that blankets the dead
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| Just as well, sometimes you couldn’t look at them
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| Snow covered all and the harvest would dream again
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| He worked alone and the ground was so frozen and cold
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| Later, many would be taken by his strength and vigor
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| But all the more by the interiors of his psyche
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| And the craftsmanship of his labor
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| Time had granted many companions
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| Upheaved from the Earth, sometimes in pieces
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| Now assembled into a personal museum
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| Dust covered all and he would never be alone again
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| Can you not see the helplessness on his face?
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| Condemn the man who was always alone
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| He was no more a ghoul, than a pathetic angel
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| Without a full appreciation of what he had done
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| Can you not see the loneliness on his face
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| He’s better off dead, he should have never been born
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| What now, what can be done?
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| Burn the past and burn what could become |