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    Towards the rich archaic heavens; towards the lack diorama
    you are the artist of the texture
    that plays with the mantle of the earth

    When the bleakest of powders
    lie rooted to the starched stones
    and roots that feed the peaking trees
    embrace the sleeping shores

    Archaic pearls of sleep and death
    the voice of December losing its breath
    and the floweryard of white and grey is haunted

    White as the down of flaking snow,
    the heroic emblems of life

    Green is the colour of my death
    as in winter-guise I swoop towards the ground
    Green is the landscape of my sorrowfilled passing

    We are In Flames
    towards the dead archaic heavens
    We Are The Mantle And The Texture
    the alters the mantle of the earth

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