Country stint

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Come
Up on a white multi-peaked mountain
To search and find our warmest shelters
Among the charred remains of January’s winter
Ensuring our tokens of slavery are not erased.
Only but a few tracks stay out of our bustle city
And on the snow that just fell
Like a crafty veil, a tight fit
Around our worn out shoes
Prompting us to forget all past traditions
And find some foreign thoughts
That spread across a nature gone wild.

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The City

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You said: “I’ll go to another land, to another sea;
I’ll find another city better than this one.
Every effort I make is ill-fated, doomed;
and my heart —like a dead thing—lies buried.

How long will my mind continue to wither like this?
Everywhere I turn my eyes, wherever they happen to fall
I see the black ruins of my life, here
where I’ve squandered, wasted and ruined so many years.”

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