| Come forth dark herald
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| Bringer of light
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| Born by the burning swans and his plague breath
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| Creator of the dream coil, a halo aloft
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| As hands entwine
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| Painters of the tempest, with their red hands
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| The world their canvas
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| Through the mist of the stormglass
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| And Bruegel dreamt the angels above
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| As Bosch danced in earthly delight
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| Angels fall
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| Into the canvas
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| Reaching for the light
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| Heaven is empty
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| And all the beauty is here
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| Upon this bone palette
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| The sway of nine-tails
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| Layered lashings of euphoria and chaos
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| Triptychs unfold like wings
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| As the arms of our fathers bear the weight of what they’ve done
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| Anti-matter-martyrs
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| Warmth of life
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| Where they sing of fire
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| Children’s eyes, for they all shine
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| As tears rise, oceans of flame billow
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| When all dreams lose hope
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| And Bruegel wept for the fading sun
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| Where have all the angels gone?
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| Angels fall
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| Into the canvas
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| Reaching for the light
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| Heaven is empty
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| As hell below
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| And hell below
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| Painted by ghosts
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| Lords of lifeless eyes
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| In this garden of wilted flowers
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| Vultures spake the mother tongue
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| Hear the children
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| Breathless sleep
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| Where they dream a new day
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| Echoing
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| Oh when they dream
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| Ebb and flow, free falling
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| Beautiful and calm
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| And fragile, and whole
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| Where they dream a new day
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| Through the coil they course and carousel
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| Echoes
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| Hear the lost children
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| Hear the children sing
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| Through the coil they carousel
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| Within this stained glass womb
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| They sing with open minds
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| Within this stained glass womb
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| They see with open minds
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| The event horizon and beyond
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| A wasteland and so barren
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| Haunted by a sea of pale faces
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| The city of lost children
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| Raising their death-shrouded flags
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| Can you hear the redrum pounding?
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| The heartbeat of many as one
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| Curator, father, what have we become?
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| Radiance, blinding horizon
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| The brilliant sunrise
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| Their horizons, where they seize this life
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| Our children
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| Painters, they are
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| They are, the change
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| Painters |