Oh, Virginia,
You simple machine,
Gatherer of the Sun,
The sweetness of soil,
Of early frosts,
And gentle April showers.

Collector of men’s passion,
Sweat and toil, tax and labor.
Precursor of war,
And bearer of treatise
(…as long as the grass shall grow,
and the rivers may run).

With careless match I release you,
Curling up in wisp,
Back to whence you came.

With simple puff I release,
Your sacred sweetness from my tongue,
Back to its mother,
Back to the Mother of All Things,
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.

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