LYRIC
I swarm deserted away, like glass…
Warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame.
I am death…
For I, I weave our blasphemies…
Wicthes painted me,
Like the mysteries created me…
Like where the poets breathe,
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…
Wicthes painted me,
Like the mysteries created me…
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies.
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I swarm deserted away, like glass…
Warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame.
I am death…
For I, I weave our blasphemies…
Wicthes painted me,
Like the mysteries created me…
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies.
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