The walls ran thin, the bells don’t ring,

The kingdom of life is lifeless indeed,

And the river that gave it beautiful memoirs, 

Is now the adversary in the kingdom’s creed. 
Sun is up mocking the sight,

The veins of kingdom being flooded by sorrow, 

Yet the bell beater one feel droughty, 

Waiting at verge of less painful morrow. 
Shredding of sins, from the skin akin,

Purifying in a way that condemns the living, 

Yet the beating one feel righteous, 

Even though she is unforgiving. 
My beating one, longs for the one, 

With whom he drew his own kingdom, 

Where the rivers ran with gilt, guilt of pride, 

The kingdom which accepted her as his bride. 
The kingdom forgot that river takes turns, 

On the to him the river churns, 

Of morrow, of yester, of that wicked pastor, 

Who dipped in the river in the name of holy scripture. 
The commoners of kingdom refused to believe, 

That the river ran dry for a pitiful deed, 

From the love of whom the kingdom was built, 

Has left the kingdom in search of guilt. 
From the Whys and whens

to there and then, 

The river of life averted her path, 

Towards a morrow more beautiful than last. 
The kingdom which never had a river, 

Is waiting now for the rains and simmers, 

Maybe the river will come back once again, 

Even if she comes to drown the kingdom within, 

The kingdom will blemish for the final embrace, 

The river will end the sorrows of the concourse, 

The kingdom will be buried under the river’s bed,

And the urn of the ashes will sing in river’s Grace. 

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