
Shades of the prison houseexist within the shadowslurk at the peripheriesof winter’s margin. Our birth is but a sleepand a forgetting – what?The light, from which we camestill burns within. Cold bites, the penniless poetsstrike a matchburn incense, cup wax candles in star-jarsdraw closer in. Your hands recall the sculptor’s artof Michelangeloand I know all […]
Winter’s Margin







