Here imagining life...
Without any wound:
Body of smooth skin.
Piece of flesh,
Afterwards rotted,
Thrown and even forgotten.
You walked in luxury,
Now putrid.
Below you no longer hear
The orchestra of farewell.
A hearse,
Rich is your coffin
With traces of gold,
Blond hair would be much more valuable
On the head of the monarchy.
Here always imagining:
Our life is a fantasy.
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