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Once or twice, this side of death
A languid, livid, living breath,
Sets aflame the burning bower,
Which crumbles to dust as Tarots tower.

Within this hour of least resource,
Comes forth the Ravens cry and course.
In the field the heart-rose dies,
Searing mortals melting eyes.

Predator and Prey act as one
Beneath the brightness bearing sun.
With puppet-masters demonic complaince,
Things cease turning, life grows silent.

And though a dove may gaily fly,
O'er burning ramparts, 'neath churning sky,
The Rose is broken, the nation died,
All because our leaders lied.

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