Take my hand in the old 'Theatre Of Seven Hells'
A ferry that bowed its wings
We call Her: 'Moon by Day'
Life- a book of painful tongue that hurts our ears
Flowers of the end, their seed shall grow
Your breath shall be my coat
The underworld is, oh, so cold
The dead don't feel the chill
But please, hold me warm
The aweful night has gone
What lay before we can't remember
Even Morpheus has drowned in the lament of his own weeping shadow
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