Under the far-off, pale-blue sky
rows of grey roofs flash.
The wind whines in the wood
through the ribbed trees.
Mists invade a mountain village
barely visible in the distance.

The rain has chilled the dawn air.
The stream freezes, studded with fallen leaves.
Memories coming alive in tears
whisper comfortingly to my soul
that cries wildly like an infant
cut with a knife.

Wasn’t there a time
when you were happy and light-hearted?
How the voice soothes,
a salve to my bruised heart.
I cry and cry at the voice,
without shame or hate.