Drenched is the heart,
As is the soul –
Soaked in the freshly-spilled blood of the past,
Though they bathe,
Choose to seek a sort of comfort,
Spending hours in the liquid
Until they’re stained completely red
And their insides warmed through.
The mountainside holds a truth,
A stoned pathway, spiralling upwards
In the same way,
Rainfall spirals downwards,
And as the mountains become wet with storm,
The pathways crumble in such futility.
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