Thirteen swings of a scythe
And bones are scattered : skeletal
Too the one who wields it - strange
That the breaker of bones is also
A house of bones, bringing it off
With a grin or a grimace? No groans
From those who go; they are not leaving
So much as achieving new ways of being,
New ways of becoming out of the litter
Of bones left behind them.
Still the scythe sweeps the field of bones
Over and over, levelling the plain
On which the dance of death
Delivers over and over bones on bones.
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