Tonight the winter presses in on her windows
"Kuwana" beckon the stars,
Calling her name with a glimmer
"Kuwana" beckon the snowflakes
Circling her pane
"Kuwana, Kuwana, the night is alive!"
Beckons the winter.
A quiet flash from far away
A silver shooting star
Coming out to play
Then falling into the eternity of nothingness in the half-light of the moon.
In the half-second it lived,
It was beautiful.
"Kuwana," beckons the shooting star. "The night is alive Kuwana!"
The supposed death of the shooting star is unrealized.
A silver streak slicing through the eddies of snowflakes
For a moment she would have missed with the instant-or-less resting
Of two tiring eyelids
And it disappears into the white-tipped woods
White-tipped, but fearsomely dark in the night-time...
