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Seven centuries must past

Dusk must bruise a day lit sky

Only then will laurels grow again

One must ignore the cries of nostalgia

One must scorn the lament of the day to come

Only then will Elysian awake again

Suspended thoughts echo through marbled halls

Voices frozen throughout aeons

Without beginning, without end

World spirit entwined

Creaking loom of time

I am the weaver...