Harnessed in silence
It shall fold itself
Back into the morning.
Voiceless, comforted
Into the cool slow sunlight
And the mist by the singing river.
It shall be polished with ashes,
Burnished by breath.
And we can not help but die,
But that is not the problem.
Says the breeze in the pines,
The breeze in the chapel pines.
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