The morning comes with frosted panes.
Cold veils block the view of a world -
Still melting.
That icy cloth, never wiped away.
We stand before it,
Carve sentiments in the dew,
Only to frost them once more.
A strange melancholy it brings.
Now the scarlet flame rises -
Grows yellow,
And clears the mist from the window.
We get on with our day.