The road stays, sated, white,
Stretched out, facing the sky.
Rare snowflakes slowly descend.
The branch keeps mum,
A nest laid bare.
.
The river lifts its shirt at the shores,
Runs higher and higher on its fleet feet,
Runs hurriedly with the fish and the shadows.
.
Trice slips the footstep
On snow-hidden ice;
Mirrors slyly gleam beneath the flimsy cover;
The horizon teems with eyes and snares,
We christen each other with high reverence,
We want the recollection of who it is we are
To carry us forward.
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