The ground is spilled glitter on pale construction paper
As curses are heard from the sunset slaves
Preparing a path for the non-nocturnal.
Twelve modern men ache the burden of one
As far back as the cycle seems to begin
Men shuddered less at nature's white release.
Now exit quickly the oldest at heart
And abandon the hope of conquering fear
With rusty iron arms and a fire-tipped spear.
Those at the first stage of global grief
Will act like they're shocked when grandma dies
But they are the ones who poisoned her eyes.
Meanwhile the pining for silence carries on
And catches the tears that so often melt
If they don't first freeze in the pure winter air.
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