Onto the winter’s moor, time dropped Around the ruthless wall, opera caressed Hark! Whose horn is in play? When homer’s heroes were to fly? To be or not to be How did a soul tend to be touched? Birds rest in the dry nest The night falls without sound
When first beam shining on the dew Morning awaken, you beam at me In the mirror a grey spirit reflected At the gate of Heaven Angels await.
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