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| Like a slow Night on Bald Mountain, the dead flowed in streams each moving to their own rhythm. Intertwining with each other they moved along following the Urn. I stood alone letting the images flow past me thinking about my grandfather, father and cats long gone by. Hundreds of anonymous faces and skulls pass by. I think to myself: "Noone knows me here, not even the dead"; a bride whose white face seem to glow against the sharp black lines looks up at me and smiles. "Paul Burns!" she cries and disappears again into the river of dead. I stood upon a high place, And saw, below, many devils Running, leaping, and carousing in sin. One looked up, grinning, And said, "Comrade! Brother!" By Stephen Crane | ||||||
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