| Like snowfall, you cry a silent storm
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| Your tears paint rivers on this oaken wall…
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| Amber nectar, misery ichor
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| …cascading in streams of hallowed form
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| For each stain, a forsaken shadow
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| You are the lugubrious spirit
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| Etched in the oak of wonder
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| You are the sullen voice and silent storm
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| Each night I lay
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| Awakened by her shivering silent voice
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| From the shapes in the corridor walls
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| It pierces the solitude like that of a distant scream
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| In the pitch-black forest of my delusion.
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| With each passing day, a deeper grave.
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| «Why did you leave me to die?»
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| «Why did you abandon me?»
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| «Why did you walk away and leave me bitterly yearning?»
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| Her haunting, contorted despair was etched into the wood’s grain
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| Though fire rages within me, no fire burns fiercer than her desire
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| The shape whispers my name.
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| I damn this oak!
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| I damn her sorrow!
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| I damn these oaken corridors
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| That bear the ghosts of those I’ve thrown away!
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| Though tempted I am to caress her texture divine
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| And taste her pain sweet, sweet like brandy wine;
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| I must burn these halls, these corridors
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| And silence her shrill, tormenting voice
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| …forever
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| Like snowfall, you cried a silent storm
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| No tears stain this dust in my hands
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| But from this ashen gray, her voice still
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| Whispers my name.
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| You were the lugubrious spirit
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| Who haunted the oak of wonder
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| You were the geist that warned this frozen silent storm
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| You were but a ghost in my arms |