The Cold Without

February 18, 2008
By Victor Leweuwa, Bronx, NY

Her beauty was her ashes, a story is untold.
The story of the cold; let the story unfold.

So young, so gifted, peaceful and warm,
Her movement’s like the signature of a peaceful storm.
To dance for the seasons and shield when clouds form;
Thus repel the senses that malign arts perform.

You’re so warm within and I’m so cold without
So maybe you could share till the cold is out
And cover me because your blanket has no spouts
And my layer is so hamper with no haven till far south.

Speak, let me go or cover me for my feet are sore
I will not lie wait for the cold at happenstance door.

The saint by compassion salvaged the drifter
Gave away her mantle, the cold lips kissed her.

So the clouds formed and the saint was without her blanket
A tragedy for a good deed to mold a casket.
Such a classic price, tragic and precise;
The radical thoughts in mind that time couldn’t suffice.

And she tried to hide that the cold wouldn’t see her
And just go away, but it crept in and concealed her.

The saddened drifter, drifted by
“I don’t want you to perish, I won’t live that you die.
“I’ll give you your blanket, hurry, cover and dress.”
So were her last words “My love shall not regress.”

She didn’t die of the cold within,
She died of the cold without.

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