There's an icy, cold wind, and the fire's down to coals.

We're buried so deep underneath the atolls.

We follow the signs of the dead sea scrolls

as they reach out and fine-tune our motor controls.

May surrender succeed, as we empty our bowls,

and no longer have need for the slurp of the holes

or the pluck and luck of the play of the poles.

Crossing over, you remember ALL of your soul.

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