The scent of enchanted dying,
Humming sound of praying,
Standing in an ocean of humans on Friday noon,
Singing in a mass on Sunday morning,
Has the red wine stopped from spilling all over the place?
Have the vampires stopped sucking every drop of it?
Burnt to ashes,
The place where they’ve slept during the moon on top of their heads,
And astounded by the strike of the sun on their faces,
Was no longer called a place,
And they’re becoming the gypsies,
Hunting down by the vampires,
Who are desiring their red wines
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