The Hermit Poem by Alex Grove

It's freezing cold outside in the middle of the desert square
and the frostiness of the breeze
on me alone it blows,
and mingles with the inward heat
of the once glacial blood
that now swiftly runs warm into these veins.

This wondering Hermit sings loudly his solitary Hymn,
a Chant that will not be heard by anyone,
that will not remain engraved and adored;
but as the golden trail of a distant meteor
will eventually vanish and go back
to the deep black darkness of the eternal space,
as a ghastly unheard shade.