Cold wind blows
Clean and clear
Past a chimney
Clean of smoke
Whistles through
Cold bare hearth
Into a room
With a tree
Balls and icicles
Hang on limbs
Lights unlit
Dark are now
Underneath
A bare floor
Hopes unseen
Dreams to be
Father sits
Softy cries
For his children
Fast asleep
Morning comes
And hopeful eyes
To dark room
Empty and cold
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem