2017_Winter

A cold, hard snow drives hard across the land,
Piercing — an attack of thorns when thrown into the bush.
My forefathers have seen this before,

brother fighting brother in a silent cold war.
A house divided against itself surely cannot stand,
but a barren house falls with silence, solemnly.

My forefathers have seen this before,
and their fathers, too, as did their grandfathers,
for the tome of Man’s History has but one page.

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