Drolling artic air around the specters,
bundling into the chill of it;
whispering without sound they
may be cursing or maybe they pray
their memories held behind me like dumbbells,
ripping out joint from ball;
rend my limbs from me I'm sworn
to divide into each of their heredities
forever fragmented however I lay
I came in the name of the dead,
their bodies held behind me like trophies,
hung taut for everyone to see;
look, I have suffered,
and here is the book on it -
their skin the pages and torn
by wringing frightfully to and fro
as though distressed by their display
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