What is a pulse behind an icy pane?
The echo behind selfish sensitivity?
The world is a snapshot amidst a haphazard dance
Behind my cold windows I gaze sadly on
You, are so far gone…
Snowstorm or fair weather… What difference?
I’ve built a house of hell in my own shape
Like a cursed architect imitating a pure One
Can You… Can You hear me?
See my glazed eyes peer through my barricades?
Perhaps You’ve a key born of Spring Fire
Cut in a love language to set me free
Poetry