In my palms a winter lingers,
white turned crimson, silence deep.
Hours pass, yet no voice answers,
only echoes buried in sleep.
Peace... does it walk this hollow ground?
I search its face, but none I find.
Instead, the shroud of death surrounds,
its shadow carved in flesh and mind.
No balm, no prayer, no gentle hand,
only scars the earth rehearses.
Snow that burns, and ash that stands—
not blessings here,
only curses.
{[... --- .-.. .. - .- .. .-. .]}