And in the depths of the night ,

Hands barren, cold hay

While my breath rings upon itself,

Cold mist; a winters quarrel

She follows me.

Green hair.

Blue eyes.

Castrated hands.

A menacing smile.

Her lips bring warmth;

Joy;

A light.

Her tears bring life;

Sound;

A comfort.

And yet every year,

She must leave.

And every day,

She must age.

And finally, in the brink of this madness:

I shall die.

Before her.

Never to see such a red lip again.