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The lights are blinding, row after row,

They find us heartbroken,

Naked in the snow.

A tree, a bridge, a moon of red,

Paint me a picture, she said.

I labored away, toiled as told

a blue shimmer, a fog as cold —

But when I came to, from amongst her graces

Nothing was left but a dim facet faded

That I should see her in my dreams

Is not a penance but a theme.

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