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She takes a much desired vacation

and leaves the city slowly

walking to the center of the nation

and finally she submerges herself wholely

into a hole of ice in a deserted town

a priest with a gun sees her become lowly

and he shoots some sticks into a crown,

arrows bent into thorns, and then into gold.

He places it on her head so she won’t ever frown

she puts on her clothes, the ones with heaven’s mold

and eats his ginger root, to discard inflammation,

but the dust goes with the wind and finds her deepest fold.