The Cold - Poem by Hannah lastname
I rise from the ashes of the moon,
To see the spectacle that is happening very soon.
The bitter cold of this time,
Makes my feet fly faster to see my sign.
Though the cold takes my breath away,
I run faster because the beauty of my sign does not stay.
Through the branches I go,
I endure the punches because I know,
That my eyes may never be able to observe,
An event that is so hard to preserve.
I climb until I reach the top of the hill,
Where this event shall give my soul good will.
There I see Apollo begin to awaken,
By this sight my breath is taken.
All the colors which make up the world,
Oh, how they swirled.
The colors shone in the sky with all their might,
And there they were returned upon the white.
Usually the animals would be out resting on the lumber,
But this time they are all in a deep slumber.
Finally my spectacle is gone,
I and thus I take my leave and wait till the next break of dawn.
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