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October was dying, down of All Saints' Day,
yet we abandoned our dead,
and moved forward into wet snow wilderness.
Fallen city, burning ruins were our only candle
for howling winds, bare branches, pale moon,
and freezing stars made early death visitors.
All of anguish still waited.
It was slowly dying of our being,
like haunting animals we became,
it was only once again history of lost souls,
it was hovering doubt in the sky,
and mightier than sells, inferno flakes,
silence that kills thereafter,
disguised Cain made us wonder.
It was lost and lonely, old women's able,
on crossing between abyss and mercy,
conceivably someone's grandmother,
or written off soul ready to die,
it was above all questioning heresy of trust,
when forgiveness was our only gain.