The sky is ash, the stars are few,
The fields are stitched with ghostly dew.
But in the dark, a pulse persists—
A dream that even frost resists.
From A Poem A Day: All Continental Europe
Also: The Shortness of Life: A Mongolian Lament
The sky is ash, the stars are few,
The fields are stitched with ghostly dew.
But in the dark, a pulse persists—
A dream that even frost resists.
From A Poem A Day: All Continental Europe
Also: The Shortness of Life: A Mongolian Lament
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