The song she sings is beautiful, an aria of the soul.
Majestic music moves the skies with the sadness of a world.
Beneath a cold and muted sun she tends an empty land
unhelped, alone, and yet she sings through every space she can.
Standing there to hear her sighs is chill, and cleansing, too.
Tears unnoticed frost my cheek, a silent frozen dew
that knows somehow her tragedy and can't but stop to hear,
but to me the weight of grief is much too cold to bear.
Ashamed then of the shivering that drives me back indoors,
I guiltily cocoon my home in levity and warmth
and only listen from afar through panes of frosted glass
to wisps and strands, e'en though she sings as long as winter lasts.
I'm yet too young, but hope someday to have a heart that's deep
enough to hear the winter wind, the grandeur of her grief.