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The Frozen Harvest

Her eyes are frosted over
Staring blankly
Upon the flood of blood and tears
Cutting across the land in front of her.
The torrent's steam rises,
Reaching for her face,
But falls short,
Clattering to the ground,
A rain of frozen shards,
To pile like some hoary harvest
Of the scythe unseen in her hands.
The blade does bite the earth
And rends into it the rift
Swiftly filled by the rising river of woe.
The torn terra's screams echo from mute mountains
And reach for her ears.
But they too fall short
And clatter to the ground
Building upon her harvest of souls.
But wait.
Is that a trickle I see?
Does some warmth within
Slow melt the shards?
To further feed the flood?
Of my blood.
And my tears.
And my screams.
It is my earth.

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