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Beyond where farthest drought-fires burn, By hand of fate it once befell, I reached the Realm of No-Return That meets the March of Hell.

A silence crueller than Death Laid fetters on the fateful air: She holds no hope; she fights for breath— The Land of Dumb Despair!

Here fill their glasses, red as blood, The victims of fell Fortune's frown; They drink their wine as brave men should, And fling the goblets down.

They crowd the board, red wreaths of rose Across their foreheads drooped and curled, But in their eyes the gloom that knows The grief of all the world.

The poison lies behind their wine So close, the trembling hands that take Might well be doubted to divine Which draught such thirst would slake.