Woeful,white wisp of the vile winter falls,
Upon the lifeless gray trees,by the road
(That leads to the city of 'quiet' brawls),
Dying in silent miserable abode.

As the eve further pours its mystic mist,
A somber thought of unsavory past,
Does,in my wilting heart,ruthlessly list,
The wild, pitiless curses that you cast.

Yet,of things I recall from December,
You lie unsurpassed,you lie far above,
The only shade of pink,I remember,
And yes,the only shade of pink I love.

Why should I then with this sorry face talk,
When toward you,I unwarily walk?