How deep
Should we dig
To get to the core of it
How many mirrors
Should we break
To reach the real sight of it
Wolves won’t
Lose our tracks
Our doubts will guide them
Blooming
Of our wounds
Leads us to dead end
New shades burn our eyes
Ground's smoking under our feet
Soaking grey sun dim light
The streams are flowing backwards
Now paint these lips with blood
Of hearts ripped out from our chests
In this false virtue of solitude
We will find no rest
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