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If I don't have God, my thoughts rust,
in the deep echo of an inordinate ego,
where the brightness shines, but the light is forgotten,
and the soul, in its shadow, feels itself surrendered.
Ideas, like flames, struggle to rise,
but in the polluted smoke of the day,
each whisper of pride is determined to be silent,
mystifying the essence, drowning out the harmony.
It is a game of mirrors, vain perception,
vanity embraces, in its subtle dance,
and in the mirage, truth is prison,
an aimless labyrinth, a feverish sunset.