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by Cristel Hastings
published in WEIRD TALES, November 1933
The hills are quite the same, the mountains, too;
The sun is just as bright, the sky as blue
As hills and suns of other years--
Only the town is not what it appears.
Once laughter sounded here, and dancing feet;
Once miners came with new wealth down the street--
Now there is brooding silence day and night,
And windows stare like eyes bereft of sight.
Doors hang on leather hinges, open wide;
The gloomy rooms are host to ghosts inside--
Here grizzled wraiths of miners wander by
On moonless nights down where the creek-bed lie.
Time made of this one street a weed-grown trail;
No voices here except of winds that wail
Through doorless shanties where the pack-rats run
Through dusty webs some luckless spider spun.