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Comments about Michael Bergman
On a moon-lit evening,
Mist and fog-laden;
upon the damp, beaded clover
stands the weary, widowed maiden.
Her silky cheeks salty
from the crooners somber cadence;
songs of mutual memory and merriment
relished, together, in sullen radiance.
A variety of hands hoist their ale
while a fatherless vitality in her womb pale;
preserving poise, she does not dare tell,
enduring strife, like that of a Celt.
Atop the bed of ice, her husband slumber;
the revelry dispersing upon the echo of thunder;
comrades and kin bid their farewells, forever, ...