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Literature Text
Grasping the whisper of the mountain, the skin
frosts over; as the rays of life hit the snow, thousands
of phantoms move down the path toward their destiny.
Flashes across the sky herald the come of the protector;
dozens of bushels of grain are laid as a fitting gift and are
taken up, followed with a misty reply.
The chest rises and falls, then stays down as the spirit
is drawn home; all arrive as they were, blood still
drenching their arms and clothing.
The blackbirds fly overhead as scores of townsfolk observe;
the falling snow covers the barrow, muffling the cries
of the stump left behind.
A quiet song echoes under their shields.
Something to wetten my appetite. I hope it is enjoyable!
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Me likey!