Orijinal sözler
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What can ever bloom again, when the power to live is missing, dryness sows hate inside of my heart.
Fading lust, a flower made of stone, forgotten in being.
Broken of life, disintegrated of illusion.
The dread lets me feel the force of love, to refuse my power, I hate the thirst of love.
It will judge me, judge me until death.
Sunday means flesh.
