It's morning on the border. Aflame in the sun. Populations boiling over, all we need is a pawn. So the latest assassin hears the voice from above. Desperate times call for measures, don't they now? Don't they now? Go into the sun, blinded. Rise down, good soldier. A name for his rage. From one dream to another, he thinks he's awake. So this will be the last time that we'll see the elect. Desperate times call for measures, don't they now? Don't they now? Those above us: sleepwalking madmen. Arm the children, freedom demands it. And there is so much left undone. In shadows through heat waves. Here comes the doomed assassin dying for interests not his own. Approaching the threshold, the gilded palace walls. Inside there's nothing left.
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