What warms the winter night to me,
Is a silent voice, a murmur faint.
A name calling, that I can hear,
When nothing but her memory speaks.

There’s a bird who chirps away,
From the bottom of a darkened night,
Crooning my story in forsaken songs,
Those seem to you like a shallow chime.

Dreary and deadened this night flogs,
Dragging me like a withered corpse,
And I keep muttering your name,
Till the dark entombs me to sleep.

~S~

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