Testo originale
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A room of ivory, walls too tall
No door, no key, no sound at all
What is owned, is never free
What is held, will cease to be
A hand that clutches, turns to dust
The tighter grasp, the faster rust
What is owned, is never free
What is held, will cease to be
A hand that clutches, turns to dust
The tighter grasp, the faster rust
