Choking minutes with her hands,
Slowly squeezing the aorta,
Nature, with her chilling glance,
Proves to us that she’s immortal.
Naked trees with passion sway,
Sweeping stars, while none will fall.
Icy puddles mark my way, -
Dark like windows to one’s soul.
Ashen doves rest on the cable,
They observe the pale sky.
Wind, - the hand that rocks the cradle,
Softly sings a lullaby.
There, I linger, sad and wearied,
Breathing in the silent night.
Shaking lips confirm my theory, -
Even dreams here freeze in flight.