| In the old part of town, there’s a house from the past,*
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| That lies like a dark rested soul
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| And up in the attic, where the spiders are kings
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| Sits a bookshelf of silver and gold
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| A book stands within it, as black as the night
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| And it’s pages are not filled with lies
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| The stories it holds were written in pain
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| From lost and unfortunate lives
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| Entry by entry, page by page
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| A soul is taken away
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| Into the blackness, cursed to the darkness
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| A diary of hero’s betrayed
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| This book is a diary given to few
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| Who their country they served and obeyed
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| The ones who their statues stand high and remind
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| Of an act that forever will stay
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| They’d seal their own page and smile with a grin
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| Thinking that they will be great
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| But they did not know that by signing in blood
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| It meant that they signed off their fate
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| Only a few have seen this book
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| In silence the scramble through life
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| They dare not to speak of the nightmares they’ve seen
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| And the horror that creeps in their minds |