Anastasia Schmidt Biography

The sting of the nights cold air on my skin
The names being called in whispers of wind
The time just stands still no one can help
Mirrors appear out and i see myself
...

The nose I smell with sniffs the scent of withered flowers on the grave
The mouth i speak with breaths the words telling me to be brave

The hands I touch with feel the colors of the red, white, and blue
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They keep their heads down
Quietly dreaming to them selves
About the up coming future
They hear the joyous bells
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We hear of bloodshed
Of death
Of agony
And yet we fight
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Here, the wind touches the swaying branchs of an exhausted, ancient williow, near-at-hand to a babbling brook i have savored over the long years
It seems that the crystal water leads to the edge of blackness, to breath grace into the lifelessness of a far off raven colored abyss.
It is thought that here, the sun releases its trusting rays time and again,
to thaw the bitterness of the world.
...