The Harvestry of Ghosts
Joy Electric
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Grim nor gale shall hinder clove or heather
Ghouls nor satyr partakes goblets and gold fount
Years have I longed for pleasant times
From the harvestry of your heart
Cursed am I to be nurtured by
The hollow of ghosts haunting realm
He who seeks shall find her
Gifts more fine than silver
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Memory the crowning deed of torment
Sifts it sickle with the roar of giants