As a child you had to let go,
For she was born freedom to know
to chose to stay or to hie,
And she chose the horizon to try--
They always vanish, like the snow
Oh, with long knife to force heart's flow
That pain with blood might dry.
But recall the morn on high, cold rift,
When ice crested trees like a mane,
The sunrise glows on the snow drift
And the cold could be Death's feign;
A thing so fine, a priceless gift,
Ought to be honored with pain.
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