In Bromine Chambers*
There can be no mercy,
No bitter flagellation for your sins;
No forgiveness and no sackcloth
Can cease the dance
Of ashes on the wind.
Too late now for a wish
To change all wishing;
Too late to change, to breathe, to grow.
Too late to smother out the tell-tale footprints
Which mark your passage through the greying snow.

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