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There seems to be
someone else behind the mirror,
a new wave of fallen angels
drowning in the shelter
of the inhabitual past,
another cut of the knife in the
forehead of doomed gods.
The crystal talks to me through babbled
stone words, maybe hyeroglifs
hidden in the perpetual
circle of the pagan rains.
I worship the sting of fate
while i wonder through it's
snows and every footstep
kills yet another cry of remorse.
Let Thy children come to me, God,
and i will tell them about
my uncle Prometheus,
and i will build castles for them
with the bricks of my guilt.
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