Wringing His Hands Is Winter Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
Wringing His Hands Is Winter
Wringing
His hands is Winter
Still
He breathes though heavily
Though slow
And
Though by the day
The sun beats him
And tepid reigns
As sunset closes
Winter raises its head again
And
His blood courses more in the dusk wavering:
At night
He drinks the vesper wine of a declined day
Thus
Coldest sings sometimes with wind
And
Frigid sighing of declining Soul:
Then
Finds his unwinding outrun
So me
So me
So me
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8/29/2026 8:08:18 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
