The unfeeling, falling snow:
These flurries against the pane
Dark...and raging cold
Numbs most
And for warmth leaves little room.

For the lost in twinges of anguish:
Who're enraptured in blind atonement
Smothered, one's heart, in the abyss of his palm-
Only draws callouses from pain's residue
And marks of isolation that do not depart.

From the blackened depths:
Even warmth of the seven suns can saturate
The most miniscule of seeds.
Inviting the isolated...the weary
To embrace ...hope... so bold.

Breathe, the pained:
For Spring is but icy remnants leading
And guiding all to rebirth-
For the tiny shoot of the seed
Naturally sees darkness before light it grasps.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Aequitas, in the year 493 AD.