In the Black Cold

The bitter frost of fierce cold has cracked the bones of my pine. The pine grove, shattered, has fallen to the ground. The threads of life of pine and earth are torn apart: a setar — as it were — under a black boot. The earthen heart of the garden stares at the "fate" of the storm: its clear tears have frozen have become icicles before its eyes. You hear its cry in the black silence: my pine garden is alone...