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  Funeral In the Woods

 Helen Losse

 


The corpse—atop the pyre—
is a fiery blaze,

but I stand shivering,

watching the snow growing deep.

 

Several men kneel on the cold, white earth.

The women enter, weeping then singing,

 

raising hands to the sky near a few, small rocks.

Each man carries a portable light.

 

What shall I make of this hope in the dark?

What shall I make of the dark in this hope?

 

 

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