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Robin Bowmer
North Yorkshire, England

The white hot snow covers our land
It never melts. They came for us
We wept. We march along the last road
And forgot to pay our ferry man.

For the journey into darkness the
Hot ice melts for our people and our place.
The gluttoned dead in cold dark halls of
Stone, better made than the houses of the living.

The women so fair but so cold, like the morning
Of the spring still clung to the winters chill. We sink
Into the foundations of a great house which we built
But were never there.

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