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Again and again they blend into one,
my father the morning pushes through moonlight love.
So what´s sleep? Sleep.
I´m tired, so tired, but it seems that there´s someone here with me.
We are the wakeful, wry, watchful.
A story at three with the shrillest of cries.
My mind fights with the sparkles in the corner of my eyes.
I hear the morning choir sing to me their elegy.
They sing to me their elegy. Requiem.