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Pilgrimage

She carries a crooked steeple bathed in blood;
The savior, she screams, he has come at last.

She hoists benevolence on her back,
Striding under billowy towers of smoke;
Winding through the cities of fog.
‘Tis time, my children,
For the final repose.

She churns her feeble etiquette;
For the seasonal cycles have left her dead.
She brings flowers from the gardens,
Pulling her darkly skirts around her.

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