Rememberance of things past
Ved buens ende
This sweetness
That surrounded us
And bled with us
That surrounded us
And bled with us
We touched it
And it smelt far worse than weeds
I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm and as fevers,
I am death...
Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
I were woven into blasphemies
I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame
I am death...
For I, I weave our blasphemies
Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies
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