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Gold will melt, a ring will be born to have and to hold, to taste and to mourn
But first, the olive must lie in anguish and in brine.
In wait and in hope of pure lit light.
I will write heart haunted harmonies Lay the bed for the sweetest of melodies
But first, the olive must lie in anguish and in brine.
In wait and in hope of pure lit light.
I will forge thy ring myself! I will drown in thy brine!
I will forge thy ring myself! I will drown in thy light!
I will play thy music with searing heart strings
And breathless maladies!
Let the promise of my soul be true Let the lonely whisper find its keeper
And the people who know love find You.
In wait and in hope of pure lit You.