Picture the cold of snow falling silent.
Watch as white comes down through black night.
Strain as you will, hear nothing as white builds
Castles high, quietly blanketing each detail.
Only the wind at last is heard, singing softly
A whispered lullaby.
Picture the white night, slipping slowly past
As a line of sheets with black holes might creep
From the burning cross. Hear now the voices,
Adrift in the cold air, laughing with indignant cruelty.
Picture the black of night, adrift against its own
Current, and no light calls in the silent storm.