In this gloomy-oriented protrusion
Their auras are so weak
We draw painful colours
To scratch them so deep
We prepare dreary waters
For their empty twilight sleep
Everything you waited for is (all) lost
All the things you gave, they keep coming along
We devise starved forests
For their ravening sympathy
We script their pathetic lives
A film in a railway of disease
Dejecting and demoralising
Every psychic contributions
As parts of majestic gloom
We create protrusions.
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