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The grass is striped
where the women leave
the sun is vapid
where the snow is bright
at the end of the earth
that is so frightfully fragile
where the werewolves are sleeping
day and night
their teeth are little demons themselves
the blood earth pulses in the flow of valleys
And now tomorrow your little heart of wonder
so pure will melt another day
like the dying snow and the women who leave
their voices more vapid than the turning sun