In twilight’s grasp, where shadows cling, The Watchtower stands—a somber thing. Its stones, like secrets, cold and gray, Whisper tales of faith’s decay.
Within those walls, devoutly blind, They count the hours, lost in time. Their hymns, a dirge for questioning souls, Echo through corridors where doubt unfolds.
The Watchtower’s gaze, unyielding, stern, Marks the faithful, their...
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