I slumber throught my years, like the desert moves with the wind.
Frozen and flickering, the lustful year has met its end.
A wanderer I am indeed
the son of the moon
and I will carry mountains soon.
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A burden I was for those who woke the sun.
I threw their masks away, lit my torches and burned their eyes.
Forgiven I never was.
But I will carry mountains soon.
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A burden, is it not?
Kneeling I chose my faith,
while they lit the sun, and flew naked and blind over my desert fields.
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