This legion, by the whim of destiny defiled,
stands outside the frosted panes to watch
the dance of those
upon whom fortune smiled.
Where will they go?
-Off to clear the streets of driven snow.
Not to quiet arbors where Tyche delves,
nor in front of mirrors
caressing the image of themselves.
Later, before the fire,
steam rising from their coveralls
hair plastered with sweat -
Prepared to meet God
with neither apology
nor regret.
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