Bless the sky when winter comes
and twilight sings a song of ice,
cold and pale
as its ghastly grip of death.

Embers dress the aurora on such
darkened nights.

A pale ghost dances around an oak,
around the Pantheon.
It's a ghost of my own, an illusion.
Memories seep away like forgotten dreams;
lost, like a raven in the night.

I bow to the Pantheon, to nature.