In a dream he cherished illusions,
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Gloomy premonitions of a funeral storm,
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His hatred sticked without respite,
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Filled by the suffering, the screams and the shocks
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Of these lower creatures who sleep without dreaming.
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As this far and diaphanous star flood the landscape with its misty light,
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I see the frightened souls wandering through the swamps,
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Sports of a funeral lord.
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The sharp flicks of the hoofs blend with the long screams of agony,
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With the eternal lamentations of the blind Morpheus,
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Captive of an invisible dungeon from which he was formally the master.
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The flutes measure of this grim hunt,
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That no blood will soil,
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A requiem of a dreamed dance.
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Any salvation will come to clear the profane wound,
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And its essence will bear the sign forever,
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Invisible but primordial at the eyes of the Last,
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King of the suffering souls,
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THE KING, ON THE THRONE OF SORROW
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Le Suzerain Des ames En Peine
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Aes Dana |