• As I walk alone on this cold, dark, dank night,
    I see a fire burning fearless and bright,
    The ashes, like petals, fall soft upon the ground,
    And I think to myself there is not another sound,

    'Cept the poetry 'scaping from my lips,
    And my feet treading on the snow which nips,
    Another line is formed of words being shaped by my mouth,
    As I head home to the house in the south!