we were never innocent

we built a world of stories, saying  
things were once pristine; 
we smell the leaves, and see the trees: 
a land of gold, and green -- 

as though we could hide what life is 
behind the veil of time: 
as though our varnish and our paint 
could cover up the grime 

that is our history and fate. 
but what is real and true? 
that we were never innocent, 
and nor, my friend, 

are you

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