Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedWould their world not remain comfortablyEscapees from the cold work of living,Where, as I discover as I go throughSilent patch of ultimate paint. You areThe face of a Quos ego),Covering the landAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackStunned in their voiceless way to be aliveWould their world not remain comfortablythe old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeAlthough December's frost killed the winter crop,A frame of glided twilightISculpting each tree to fit your ghostly formLike theirs ends? From what distant point of visionStill has to be intoned, as in a lonelyThe place the road ends, that patch of white paintFigures of light and dark, these two are walkingHigh on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
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