Lonesome hands... Dew-like.
Shaking in the snowy cold
Before the day's first sunlight.
Is this whiteness the cause of
A soul so old - old by night?
Was it told before that rains
Are not the cause of floods,
But floods are the rains' till it
Makes each sorrow rolled
In the cold?
As you are melting slowly
Upon my palms like a flake
In the clarity, my hands will
Remain cold, so cold and old
Like a memory – a memory lost!
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