Days above morning, flying leaves leaving
     Out crimson’s crisp echo before the sharp blast.
Out crimson’s crisp echo
    I flying leaves leavings, watch days above morning
will sharp winds ride?
In this calm serene
      half-a-world away         unseen
high and high gasping the highest col raking
in final pierced rays of a cold sun’s begone
on grays of fierce snow crystal
crystal quiet alone
caused shattered collapses of ice-tons descending
is there a noise if no one can hear?