It’s an antique brass urn
Now the coldest day at noon
And the crystals snowflakes gather
There is a prism in my room
It's chilling, in here, I noticed, picking up your urn
Speechless, I stood, having nothing to say
In quietness, from my eye, as I began to turn
A white feather floated, lingering in a sun-ray
Dangling freely in the air,...
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