A shade I see, across the white abyss…
Does love tell tales, or does it silent stride
Across the frozen yard in wintertime?
I know of fires, burning lower now,
That still retain the passion in their smoke,
Although their coals be few, and scattered poor.
Though breath be seen, it is a ghost’s lament:
To see what can’t be felt, to hear a voice,
But know that feelings shall no more have sway,
And have life without living, night and day.
The pain may not be felt, but still be there —
What’s true of pain is also true of hope,
But that is more than twice as hard to know.
But even still, the boiling kettle needs
The water we must fetch from down the way…
… across the white abyss, into the void