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Groaned the crystal, grey,

Upon horizon's shore,

That on, further onward,

Should it be no more.

Downward came the gold, and

Upward grew the red,

Input: warm with life,

Output: cold and dead.

Signals tangled dizzy,

Laughter? or just noise?

Cruelty released?

or Playful little boys?

Groaned the crystal, grey,

Upon horizon's shore,

That on, further onward,

Should it be no more.