Date: Sun, 29 Jul 2007 03:32:09 -0900
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.Covering the land—<BR>
Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsWinds blow sharp, what then?
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for deadCovering the land—<BR>
Escapees from the cold work of living,This perfection, this absence.
Winds blow sharp, what then?He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,Bronze the sky, with no
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,In white, in paint too representative
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversationAlong the walls are only empty niches,
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
