In Winter  
all the songs  
drift above the trees,  
while my poems  
lie below my pillow.  
Each word gathers,  
assembling on the page—  
while my feelings scatter,  
hidden in my heart.

I pen down tears  
that reach my eyes  
without tracing maps  
along my cheeks.  
The world sees  
the smiles I show,  
but my poems know  
the quiet truths  
I keep inside.  

In winter's darkest evenings,  
between these quiet walls,  
beneath my pillow—  
lie the secrets  
I've never told.