And when even the crickets are still,
The leaves unmoving, the cold biting,
Innocent people getting ready to sleep,
The fire reducing down to embers;
When the clock stops at twelve,
Its hands moving yet not moving,
Then is the winter at its cruelest,
The other innocent people shiver with their blankets of the dense fog...
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
And when even the crickets are still,
The leaves unmoving, the cold biting,
Innocent people getting ready to sleep,
The fire reducing down to embers;
When the clock stops at twelve,
Its hands moving yet not moving,
Then is the winter at its cruelest,
The other innocent people shiver with their blankets of the dense fog...
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