A thousand brittle limbs hung to the wind,
Their whistles turned to singing,
Can you hear it sink?
A thousand skinny rings bound her in,
To something so thin,
The summer slips to bruised images where soil had gone,
Motionless she'd sit in swing for months or more.
A thousand dancing ships took to the wind
And each one fell to the mist,
And were claimed by him.
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