Gerrit Achterberg

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Hulshorst, your name is like
forgotten iron, within the pines
and bitter conifers,
rusts your station;
where the north-bound train
with an ungodly grinding
comes to a halt, nobody gets out
nobody gets in, oh minutes,
that I hear the sparse blowing
as an ancient legend
out of your forests: harsh hordes,
thieves, rancid and rough
out of your white pineforest heart.

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