Snow falls
in a most
disturbing way.
It falls from
the lungs of
dead musicians.
It is cruel
when it strikes the earth,
more hungry than mean.
The snow is a dream.
And, almost, a call to prayer.
Ah, if ever there was a perfect ending to a poem.. . This would be it!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
could you make it a little longer? Please.