I could mistake the trees for happiness, <br />that have not fallen yet; their soaring leaves <br />and branches dance as if my loneliness <br />is welcome here, as if my shame was breeze. <br />How soon will frost become my dearest friend? <br />Enveloping the tears I spilled in life <br />and hiding them; how well I should pretend <br />that powdered snow has been a loving wife. <br />My scars I shall anoint as sparkling rain, <br />and in the sun reflect what cannot cool, <br />to wash away the guilt, to quench my pain, <br />collecting with my dreams - in empty pools.
