(no subject)

When you see this, post a bit of poetry in your own journal.

Back again. Day one. Fingers blue with cold. I joined the
lengthening queue.
Roll-call. Then inside: chalk-dust and iced milk, the smell of
watered ink.
Roods, perches, acres, ounces, pounds, tons weighed
imponderably in the darkening
Air. We had chanted the twelve-times table for the twelfth or
thirteenth time
When it began to snow. Chalky numerals shimmered down; we
crowded to the window--

These are the countless souls of purgatory, whose numbers constantly
diminish
And increase; each flake as it brushes to the ground is yet another soul
released.
And I am the avenging Archangel, stooping over mills and
factories and barracks.
I will bury the dark city of Belfast forever under snow: inches,
feet, yards, chains, miles.

--Ciaran Carson, "Slate Street School"