That images of roads, whether composed
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeSet on that tomb in the eternal night;
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowSet on that tomb in the eternal night;
As it sits there like an eventualPlace of absorbing snow, itself to be
The high whites spread over the buried earth.The pain of being born into matter.
Writhing their stunted limbs,Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;Again awaken from your being gone to find
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,XVII. Greenland
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Pèrewatching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Are muffled into silence that refusesDim, and die tonight?
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