Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos

Frost has found the ground
like hands find pockets.

Bright sun hides in the
shallows of the winter sky.

Tired wings hop and flap,
hunting for what remains,

and some grow fat to
spite the wind’s late chill.

Silence drapes the mantle
of the air in blue and grey,

echoing the short of days,
waiting on a ready dark.

Frost has found the ground
like hands find pockets,

as friendships rekindle
between collar and neck,

and the slowing world
is watched through the warmth of glass.

como-no-haber-amado-sus-grandes-ojos-fijos

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