The dead and the dying gather near us in the shortest days,
For these long nights I have left the last bouquets of summer
To wither in their vases, to scattter their petals and dust on the sills
Where memory is framed and grief reclines in the lengthening night.
Do their destructions merge with another voice and other light?
Against the dark expanse, let us bring the stars into our beings.
I would draw down the Dipper, send you the northern star.
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