Brick and concrete, silent stone soon to be fashioned into walls
(rocks mingle with the bodies of fallen men to make the mortar)
that keep out dreaded barbarians, but never cold-fingered Death
as He lightly glides in a tarlike cloak-
Hurry masons, craft barriers against the bite of the white-tinged wind
that already has stripped the trees bare down to their bones,
that whipping wind that wishes to peel the flesh from the living
like paring the skin from a fiery red apple.
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