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Day winds down and bleeds the land
mounds of earth cling like leeches against the hills
clockhand shadows pointing out
the roll and pitch and yawn
in the brief desert before the trees take hold
and root in the soil like pigs
the sun bleeds gentle blood and geese
singing of Is rah elle mount
a frontal assault against the day's last peace
and turn and sweep and roll beneath
strange folds at the edge of the world
a lady in a riding cloak
battles wind and anachronism uphill
until the end is met
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