I remember reaching out,
During this winter of winters,
Fingers clawing out to earthly rime,
Hands straining to feel some sliver of nature,

I remember the boreal pain,
An intense bolt of arctic lightning,
Biting and vengeful,
A scourge birthed in cold,

Now my hands lay in black stain,
No longer able to caress anything,
This rot has been inflicted upon my fingers,
For the sin of touching the world,

Now no sensation comes to me.

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