Snow sets to the
South of me and the
Sun, in a blaze with the
Light of Prometheus,
They begin to sing –

All the people sing in a
Language of chorus
So their dialect,

A paramour
Of Forgiveness,

Denies the madness
Mended in divine cost
And tenderness, this
Precedence casts hope

Like a robe clothing
The room in release –

For so many,
The syntax of artistry
And argument will
Spill the ageless
Tears of night.

© K. James Ribble