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Winter

A bird is delayed in flight south,
When suddenly struck to its core,
Wings coming to a halt,
And now its heart lingers,
In a howling silence, crystallized
In Nature’s darkest hour.
Sealed off from the benefactor Light,
The world retreats into the deepest corners
Of the soul,
Where, though, the soul is already hollow, asleep,
In a spell of brilliant white darkness.
Like a face etched in marble,
Nothing moves; but their features-
The features are wary in slumber.
As the last of light is choked in an icy grip,
Branches reach in vain to the sky,
Only to be struck away,
Their colors nothing more but a passing thing.
The mouse in his burrow,
The owl in his nest,
All succumbed to the spirit
Of cold, morose longing-
But to each his own sadness.
Stillness, silence pervade
Save for the long, deep voice of the land,
That seeps up from the ground,
In billowing gusts of snow.





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