And beneath the mossy graves of oak trees,
a sanctuary sleeps in time.
fearlessly growing older as it lives beneath your lives.
upon the day and upon the hour, when heaven's chorus run free and wild.
the first bone to be twitched will beeith of my darling soul,
frozen in love,
born into cold.
there under layers of dust and decay,
the ancient of shadows,
the giver of day, shall let night fall, and to it a new sun rise,
whist chaos its beams, and death its delight.
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