Spring does not come to this skin, soul does not come from this cordial.
It does not breathe this mortal, this living dead.
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Silent screams kill him as he drowns in the imagination
The insurrection of the rebellion will take your breath away, I will not stay here.
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From your spiritual life to the sun of wrath.
A hand shakes him from behind, neither he stays behind nor does he go forward.
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