Not much that could dim me now
Rooted in loneliness that was sowed in freedom
And no one could shake away
What is left
Days will pass and grow anew, like in any given time
After the rains and witching nights
Perhaps remains a subtle residue, some thin moisture
Captured in frosted fingertips
It takes time to thaw, I already know, all the time needed
To spring whole rivers in their season
But then must come a belated blossom
For still alive are the things inside:
I hear echoes rise and descend
Breathing from the brown bears' slumber
From within the caves I retreated to
Some-here, beneath layers hardening and peeling
I for myself await
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