A dome above me. Of marble and stone. A pillar, a staircase. No, several more. Light ever abundant. Through windows with curtains. The wind touches, caresses. Hanging crystal, flowing fountain. Floor of mirror. Glory all reflected. Golden and white. A silent thunder. It strikes me.
It finds me aged. Crooked and patched. Limping with poison. Hurt are my hands. I have not. Except the rags. They are my crown. My face is sunken. My hair, gone. I have seen. But never the good. And weary with ill. I cannot flee. For belong here. Is not in my name.
So fall. I fall. In golden grave.
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