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THE PINES DO NOT FALL

They always come with daybreak
And could be seen silhouetted against the hill
Long before the locks were forced. I held you
As we watched their progress. The landscape
Breathes a steam of wet flesh. The month
Turns warm and the pines do not fall.

I heard my heartbeat
Accelerate inside your own.
In other lifetimes we would run
For the forest, the inter-zone
Of bones and single bullets,
Each carrying secrets as pure as silence.

      — Ian Brook