The grey skies bequesth
moountains of snow will fret
this makes no sense
for those who live in pretense
the life is not but seen
across the river green
while we waste the midnight lamp
the world will carry on and stamp
have you heard the new sound
that has got all around
the life is all but renewed
world of fire all but rue
what have we done to change the path
what was begun as another ward
whoever thought the night would be so black
the furture never seemed so slack
whoever would understand the creature of stealth
which has been stripped of all its wealth
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