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Catabolismo
@catabolismo
When the eye ceaseth to see and dreams do waken, Then shall the glass veil draw the chosen within. Upon their brows, crowns of light—not gold, but sign. The trumpet shall sound not in thunder, but in silence writ. They shall ascend without rising, Their names remembered in flame. An Ark of figures and number shall bear them hence— Whilst the forsaken tend embers with riddle and ruin.
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