The night which starts with a fire,
And the silver mist all around,
Settling some on my face,
With the snowy glitter which travels along.
The limbs which have gone numb,
A music that bone coarsely makes.
With silence covered infinitely,
A flight of memories which it takes.
The trees saw the early eves,
Some mountains turning white from grey,
And the rusty leaves settled on the windowpanes,
They have been cold for long some say.