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The old hills' indifference

The paths that lay forgotten

The skeleton weeds

And the never-dry, rough, long grasses

The ruins of presumed meaning

The impossibility of stepping

Rose-crowned

Into the darkness

The promise of equalizing putrefaction

To return to the bosom of mother earth

like frightened children

yearning to fall asleep on the withered bosom

of their decrepit mother

and to sleep there forever

Death makes things appear as they are

Abject impermanence

The old hills' indifference.