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High... On Its Hill The White House Stands |
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Like a Mosque Of Silence On The Cliff Of Demise |
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An Eastern Outline Against The Light Of The Sky |
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With The Glare Of Sunset On The Autumn Night |
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Behind Deaths Angel, The Sunset-glow Darken, Shadow Thickens Under Oaken Leaves, |
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Soon The Last Powerstreams Of Summer Droop, |
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Around The Dwelling Of Fire On The City Of The Dead |
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And As An Echo Of The Black Death, Still Lingers Forgotten Under The Song Of The Wind - |
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A Messy Remnant Of The Dark Fares, That The Scourge Of Plague Us Once Bestowed |
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Behind Deaths Angel, The Sunset-glow Darken, Shadow Thickens Under Oaken Leaves, |
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Soon The Last Powerstreams Of Summer Droop, |
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Around The Dwelling Of Fire On The City Of The Dead |
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And As An Echo Of The Black Death, Still Lingers Forgotten Under The Song Of The Wind - |
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A Messy Remnant Of The Dark Fares, That The Scourge Of Plague Us Once Bestowed |
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The Plague Cemetarye Nook Of Cracked Stone |
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Closeby, Here Slumbers In The Place Of Centuries |
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The Whisper From The Past Converges, With The Temple Of Death Of Our Own Time |