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somewhere between a whisper and a scream,
in a place where nothing is as it seems,
our blood mingles as it flows up-stream.
the creatures speak to me, in a language all their own.
the white birch trees are constructed of old dried bone.
our blood mingles as it drips onto the stone.
flying beasts with beaks of gold and claws of steel,
wings of ice, too numb to feel.
our blood mingles as we strike the deal.
when the bruised sky licks the scarred land,
I'll raise the blade with a trembling hand,
and watch our blood mingle, before it's sucked into the sand.