Orange sunlight played on the snows,
and I sat inside translating Housman's
translation of Horace, telling myself
that when I would be done, I would go
and walk in that light, and now that
I'm done, the light is gone, and black
silhouettes of trees stand against dark
blue of the sky, the clouds gathering
to hide the stars that will never emerge,
and another day is done, another
long night is soon here, bleak hours
until morning comes with sleep.
So I take my gaze from the windows,
there are always words waiting
in which sunlight plays on snows.
11.03.2025
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