Upon the hill
In the house you built of stone and snow
Before your death
I will come to you bearing words of cold and spite
You will speak of the sun and stars and how they illuminate my skin
I will tell you that you are old and frail
That night I will burn your body and spread the ashes amongst the dead leaves
You will hope to grow into a tree
But I will know that if it is so
Every last branch will be cut from your core
And the sharp pines that were once your fingers will no longer scar the ground you once ruled.
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