| White as snow lie my lover’s bones
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| in the soft, velvet soil of the vault,
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| And I, his bride, sleep by his side,
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| To celebrate our sacred love.
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| At times it seems that I’m existing only
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| within some fading memory,
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| But dreams are all sacred, dreams are all holy … -
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| And, by far, still the safest place for my poor soul to be.
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| Do not speak of the terrible place
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| that guided your war-horse and your living stake !
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| We are dancing in circles with the dear living dead,
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| We are blessed with the corpses that coil 'round our necks.
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| Please, don’t speak of that terrible place,
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| That once guided your war-horse and your living stake !
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| We are taking a walk with our dear walking dead,
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| Feeling blessed with the corpses that feed on our necks.
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| I caught a glimpse of myself on the other sphere
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| and for a fleeting moment I forgot the tears.
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| Dreams are precious … and — OH — so is sleep,
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| This, my safest, yet … by far … the most fragile of all retreats.
|
| Do not speak of the terrible place
|
| that guided your war-horse and your living stake !
|
| We are dancing in circles with the dear living dead.
|
| We are blessed with the corpses that coil 'round our necks.
|
| Please, don’t speak of that terrible place
|
| that once guided your war-horse and your living stake !
|
| We are taking a walk with our dear walking dead,
|
| Feeling blessed with the corpses that feed on our necks … |