Our Cold Nights

A cold wind blows from
empty lakes, as green and
red lanterns flicker, slow to dance
an the awaited Eve; yes, it is cold.
Cold - on meadows and valleys
pregnant memories, as

tall, darkly draped on the
of silent (and if we could still call them as such).
The raging waters of our collective
excuses for expediency and mentality,
the darkness wailing on far-away blooded hills,
were forcibly weaved within the rhymes our
children's songs.

The wind is cold,
particular month, but who
knows if we will soon
hang silent bamboo lanterns
igloos inside our vaults;
as our shadows are standing
tall and long in front of the thick road.
The cold wind whispers:


this Eve only shines to all
clasp hand towards the bent night,
while the green, red
lanterns still flicker on
our cold night.