I lay beneath an oak,
Around me, winter's white;
I remain as just a cinder
And a gong bash hails my plight.
I'm surrounded by the leaves,
And I hear the cold wind whistle;
Near the deadly dragon draws
Shadow on the moon like a missile.
I can hear the crash of thunder,
I feel delicate, clean lace;
And I wander to the dance
That glows under the clock's face.
The winter may be white,
But to my eyes it's grey;
I sigh throughout the festival
Taking place this winter's day.