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In the winter: TraklThe field lights up white and cold.The sky is lonely and beast. Choughs circling over the pond And Hunter climb down from the forest.A silence in black tops lives. A fiery glow flits from the huts. Sometimes a sled rings very remote And slowly the grey Moon rises.A wild gently bled to death on the rainAnd Raven splash into bloody gutters. The pipe shaking yellow and shot up. Frost, smoke, a step in the empty Grove.
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