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Writer's pictureDarkling Thrushes

Slain Dragon

Lying out in the summer sun, 

Are the bones of Nethermost, 

Shaped like a green world, 

Of virgin forest and The Smog. 

 

My task, is to shelve the burnt books; 

No bridge remains to ‘then.’ 

My task is to sort into piles, 

The gold coins and flaming jewels. 

 

My neighbor comes to greet me now, 

The Shire-folk with their long shadows, 

Dispersed, the dwarves of stonework; 

But they are wholly men, unknown. 

 

And I must take him by the throat, 

Again, and open those frightful teeth. 

To see his innards from outside, 

Not to quarrel with him again. 

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