We are but transient breezes, subtle specters,
On this ancient soil, so dense, so tangible,
Yet fleeting seagulls of smoke in nature's hands,
A curtain's sway when the final act concludes,
Departing from mortality's sharp incision, we leave without armors,
Simply empty shells, extinguished echoes on the shores of oblivion,
Bearing the secretive seal of a destiny towards the void.
How much...
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