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This is an ocean of dimpled ice

These are rocks that do not sink

They come back to our hands

To come back to your heads

There are more of those rocks 

Where we stand

We are trying to correct this imbalance

That is a fire between us

Which is a small fire

But this time it is not 

Consuming one of us

Who chose to go up

As bundles of leaves and bones

You black things with sticks 

Will be spilled out

Onto this wet

That is a mirror for the wet sky

That is not a map