• I faintly remember the grass,
    But I now see stalagmites of ice.
    The wind, the water
    Are chunks of cold glass.

    Welcome to this silent wasteland
    A snowy desert known as winter.
    All stops, all freezes
    And the hands of time are buried in sand.

    It is you little golden bird of fire,
    You are the flame glowing in the night.
    You move, you burn
    To be like you is the world’s desire.

    Perhaps she too is burning,
    That little girl always in motion.
    She feasts, she fights
    She lives while all is dying.