The wind howled in a cold winter
outside my room;
heartlessness, too.
Not a genuine feeling
attaches me to this world—
nor a warm whisper of love,
nor inviting eyes
leading to
the cosiness of a soul.
Not even the scent of burning wood,
nor the warmth of a woman
awaiting
at the end
of this barbed road.
Nor ointment
for the wound
of a hundred years of solitude,
nor even a yearning to survive
prevails
against the oppression
of icy fangs.
<>
Now, the swan dies—
for he was as white
as the taste of all the winters.
For
this road
melts
into snow....
