| Alas, let me tell you about the beauty of the tomb:
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| the stained glass, all viole (n)t,
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| enhancing the gloom. |
| Dark flowers,
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| all withered, fragile and old,
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| yet, their perfume still lingers like a secret untold.
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| Like a dream, or a memory that floats in this vault,
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| waiting for the moment it shall be recalled by some
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| visitor, maybe, who is seeking release from a strange
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| kind of sadness, some unknown disease.
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| Its symptoms are madness, caused by the music in his
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| head, sung by an endless choir, called:
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| «the Voices of the Dead».
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| It’s his longing for silence,
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| for the absence of sound, that will lead him the hidden
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| path below the ground. |
| Where he shall discover,
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| though terror and fear, behind black iron doors.
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| … something is sleeping here: a little dead baby,
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| a young boy lies kept, as fragile and frightened, crippled and sad… |