Here death has been accepted.
Words have no tones to play with.
Wind leads the conversations.
Snow falls in icicles.
Frost blurs pupils and sets fire to throats.
Marshes give birth to stone.
Bright red dust spreads over the icy dames.
To this place no God or Ferryman owns the key.
Here walks Virgil with no eyes.
Here lies Thurkhill with no tongue.
Here is no stories to tell.
Here is nothing
without nothingness.
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