Roll back the tides of time, and tell,
Of ancient books of myths, of hell,
Of temperance, nuns succumbed to gloom,
Entombed within their living tombs,
Of monks, and saints, and gospel song,
Born gently by the breeze, along,
Of deep toned organs' peeling swells,
Of virgins, Mary, and funeral knells,
Of dim-lit cells and penance loaned,
Which can for one's darkest deeds, atone,
Look...
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