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Who are we to determine who lives and who dies
leave that to the authors with lies
and the artists' inner eye
let them paint the world with their words
let them shape the endless sky
have them lay till the end of day
where the might of men has yet to crumble
and the earth of lore has yet to rumble
so we may escape from our fate
to the endless void of late
where sorrow can't be found
and death is but a sound
that the night does whisper
on the back of the restless wind




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