Hidden in my last winter abode came Death
like a frail and excusing crying mourner
and sat down in apprehension, in whisperance:


Searched here for Life itself to befriend,
in the wounded you, in your lone dying

We are a left, shadowfree storm,
holding our rugged words against darkness,
pressing the nights hours; teaching us coldness

(Was drawn here through the lands inside darkness
Dragged over all the time distances, stones and ices)

And cold has just my fairness in its word,
while emptiness,
has its emptiness stuck in the Weave