My sad bow.


Snow. Now. Why! How! I am feeling low.
I knew it yesterday. Today I still try not to know.

Coming from every piece of sky. Comes so slow.
This tiny whiteness with this tiny crow.
And sings its lonelyness in a private show.

I must go back to my cave and let the sighs grow.
I must be patience. I expect three days in a row.

My feet should be here sowed.

Coming the cold. The cold sees and flows.

Who is above? Who pushes? Who throws?

Up in the air. Some lips blow.
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