Burdened by the cold air of a winter’s breath, Dead petals folding in on themselves, Every living thing, once living Choking under this quilt of cold, A reminder of all the deaths you’ve faced. You watch, your breath pale against this numbing wind, A bystander to tragedy. How does it feel, to have lost everything? Does it even feel? But amongst the blinding white, Two black dots pierce through, Small bird, perched on his branch of hope, Singing effortlessly. Little dove, oh, little bird, Your feathers ashy unfinished, Did you not know, oh winged soul? That from these ashes come a phoenix. So, blow your fire on this snow, And you shall see, That the little bird sings a truthful melody. It’s snowy feather only a symbol of- Your very own jubilancy.