Encasing my thoughts, i still wonder o' Pythia,
What is the true nature of this abundance of sorrow.
No wrong was made right,
All right made to believe as wrong.
Did it even matter to mend,
Did it even wanted to be mend.
A monument was built of me,
In stone and carves, like you prophesied
Tell me, what lesson had i learned now,
What wrong have i done.
To make all wrongs right
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