I long for the solace of black and white:
The picturesque scene of a snowy wood
Lit by the lone moon. The grove crawls toward night
As if the sky was pulling down its hood.
It is a cowl through which the light shines through
And casts long shadows through the blackened trees.
The jet black lattice lacks a shade or hue,
But it is darkness pure and Night agrees.
While the white of snow grins in sharp contrast,
A mirror to the stars from which it fell.
It scatters as if shards: a crash of glass,
All silent save the screams of those in hell.
Cruel Quiet, Cruel Silence, mocker of sight,
Why do you mix my black and white to grey?
I long for the solemn snowy wood’s night;
I’d even settle for it during day.