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Ved Buens Ende

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To Swarm Deserted Away

To Swarm Deserted Away

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Ved Buens Ende

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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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