| In scarlet fields where fallen angels sleep:
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| a ground upon which mortals dare not tread,
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| where moves the image of the fallen man
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| who holds the star within his hand
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| beneath the shadow of a darkened sun:
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| intoxicated by the wine of life
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| we slumber through our days of emptiness
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| and blindness and forgetfulness.
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| Within the fire of awakening:
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| there lies the core of my triumphant self.
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| a spark ignites a freedom greater than all life,
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| my mystery profound.
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| Upon the altar where the chalice stands:
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| where coils the serpent round its offering
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| of knowing and of sight, the power to transcend
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| beyond the tyrant’s throne. |