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For Her, a name would be vain.
Her face, on each drop of rain.
The messenger that comes as thunder cutting through the sky,
silencing our secret dreams at break of dawn,
bringing the demise of our mediocre lies.
She won’t ignore our pleas, our cries,
but Her duty she must fullfill.
She will come to take with Her the children of night,
those that howl at the pale Moon,
those that dance like beasts around fire,
those that breathe the hurricane winds of stormy seas,
those that have fallen from Heaven to save what was once lost.
Let’s meet Her fury on the edge of time,
for yesterday and tomorrow death has come.
On rocky shores we will stand naked,
singing songs to Her and praises.
While the relentless waves carve the land in their own image,
blades of grass cut through the winds of change
– winds that burn History’s page.
The slaughter of time has saved us.
Greet Her with open hearts,
cause She is gentle,
She is a Mother,
A mysterious Lover.

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