In Wintry Days

Angelic stillness of snow. 

My silk imaginations

I spin in ode to the Song,

the soft flakes falling, white,

out of the ashen Sky.


And what is a lonesome Star

masquerading as the Sun?

I ordain myself of Truth

as a mirror or a cog. 


In this season of rebirth,

I am not yet born. 

Time comes slow to the heart,

and we fend off destruction

with pikes and our teeth wide open to the World. 



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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada