We wrote one for those who didn't,
We wrote one for those who were sold,
And another one for those who were bought!
We wrote and wrote,
Stopping at nothing,
And in a mountain of these,
We live!
Without realising what we did,
We live on the mountains of our own myths,
Not far from one another,
We light the pyre of our souls.
But we keep writing some more,
While these peaks are growing higher and higher,
Full of this sludge, fire and ashes,
We write ourselves to this eschaton, even when there was none.
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