The Long March

The river has frozen still
with the shivering winds,
and I trudge from the valley
back through hilltop’s shade.

Empty pockets rattle with the cold,
weighing down ragged coat.
Sunshine falls on blinded eyes,
struggling to rise with the day.

Winter drags like the tired feet
as they reluctantly carry on,
through the heavy of a fog,
the thick of a solitary visage.

The silence of the bitter air
is filled with echoes of crisis.
Distant songs fall flat and
unheard on the hard mud path.

The river has frozen still
with the shivering winds,
slowing the cold earth to a stop,
breaking the thirsty fields.

sdr
sdr
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