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SEPULCHRE.
For all our fields
that are pampered with gold,
for all our forest
that are flooded with milk and honey,
our song is yet as captives` tale.
Our shadows betray us
before the morning sun,
In lack and decay
our past is described,
and deep is it today
as stagnation prevails.
With all our treasure
our travail runs without measure.
With all our pleasure,
we are mates to untold preasure,
and all at once is the global village
passed to our future,
the cupof resignation.
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