It is natural, this death,Our pillars are not immune,
The illusion of power
In the image of gold
Is sure to crumble, is crumbling
Will turn to dust again.
Where will we find our happiness
When the last golden leaf is gone?
It is natural, this death,Our pillars are not immune,
The illusion of power
In the image of gold
Is sure to crumble, is crumbling
Will turn to dust again.
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