insomnia by punk sing, master of songs of ashes thrown o’er fire’s tongue we of living earth to terra tied licked by gentle airs lofted and christened in morning’s dew our strength wanes withered by time’s chastening so few the strokes of clock’s rotating hand ere the land comes claiming its debts ham-fisted we curse our state we accursed and reviled demand our due more to us promised was before she unyielding began her march silence roars and would crush the spirit scurry and hide so soon the end

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