Day Eight: Write an ottava rima.
In snow there is no pleasure but the past,
cold memory and wasted tones of truth.
To see beyond the winter's hold at last
takes only the warm hope that comes with youth.
The shadow of antiquity is vast -
uncompromising and, at best, uncouth.
But visions of the future hold a hope:
a rescue and a way back up the slope.
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Playing on Spotify at this very moment:
Good Old War, Coney Island
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