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The old hills' indifference
The paths that lay forgotten
The skeleton weeds
And the never-dry, rough, long grasses
The ruins of presumed meaning
The impossibility of stepping
Rose-crowned
Into the darkness
The promise of equalizing putrefaction
To return to the bosom of mother earth
like frightened children
yearning to fall asleep on the withered bosom
of their decrepit mother
and to sleep there forever
Death makes things appear as they are
Abject impermanence
The old hills' indifference.

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