| http://www.w3.org/ns/prov#value | - Here, we have the final poem:Running, we are always running...I can hear screaming in my head; sounds of agony.We are the living dead.Feed me into the hell of this desolate land; when I am gone there will be nothing leftIt ended - discordantno more important than might-have-beenand no more distant than the very phantasms of time.But for all it was not... it was mine.There is a piano playing in the
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