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ArtistMourning maidens go, some lifting their arms Filled with scent-sheaves torn apart by the wind; Some gather into shells tears breaking from the cheek, Some still seek the road that was built centuries ago. Others dash against the ground huge pots of clay Whose clatter in cracking yet adds to the sorrow. Boys strike hatchets blue against the sky, Serving lads strike light-rusted shields, A mighty banner sways amid the smoke, its spear-point Leaning, as it were, against the arcs of heaven
Prompt taken from the poem 'Bema pamięci żałosny rapsod" by Cyprian Kamil Norwid.