It’s cold in the cairn – five-thousand-years cold;
As cold as history, as cold as death.
Outside, the birds are prophesying spring;
Inside, it’s quiet; you can see your breath.
Even the ghosts are old in such a place;
They speak in whispers, haunted by themselves.
Here is the relic of some ancient race:
A thousand heavens, and as many hells.
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