There’s blood in the snow,
in the yard
by the sink hole,
where I should never go.
By the sink hole
where, in summer,
the golden fruit would grow.
There is blood upon her stockings
where it wrinkles by her knees,
she prays to her god in a blizzard
to help her this time please.
There’s blood in the snow
in the yard
by the sink hole,
where I should never go.
By the sink hole
she lost the harvest,
he decided not to grow.


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