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The hands of the sick
The hands of the dying
Are held by another
The one who keeps the vigil
The one who finds the pill
Because love makes them
Love, the bitter ill
That makes the weakest man
Foolishly brave
That makes a dog lie down
In its master’s grave
With this love
They walk next to death
Pick up the ring
Give over themselves
To become shadows dire
Submerged in alchemical fire
Returning gold

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