Upon the Icy Hill

Your End


Frosted tips cutting the air
A steamed window
like blurred vision
I cannot see

The fire burns out
The snow will melt
Wood becomes ash

Frosted smoke
the smell of night
From daily plight
An escape

By myself
But not alone
The wind serenades
My tired ears

I rest my eyes
But never sleep

Lulled by the singing owls
I rest my eyes
But never sleep
I cannot see


Autor(es): Your End