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On the outside of the tree
Spaced out as fairground targets they sat,
With the concentration of statues,
Waiting in the chink of heat,
That barely escapes a winter sun.
Clean on top of the tree they sat
With the filigree of bare branches below.
No noise, no ruffle of freedom flowing,
As still as soldiers standing,
Fighting against the cold pressing,
From the cloudless sky to the barren stones.
