Dried pine needles, dampened leaves,
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resting on the sodden ground.
Blowing winds with edges sharp,
shaking boughs of downcast firs.
And deep inside the leaves and twigs,
wilting,shining in the rain,
a murky,subterranean realm
resides.Sepulchral and hollow.
In this place, upon a stone,
that darkened, turbid waters wash,
a lonely figure with head bowed,
sits, and with tones toneless chants,
a lament with no words,
a lament with no name.