Now I’m smoking
and I see slowly thoughts,
misty going into winter’s cold air.
I am cold. I am as
what I can’t see, no more: flying air.
I am as my grey fog.
My best is country’s winter
with pale sun
waiting for newest light.
Come, I pray
Here I wait.
Knees on floor, thin my soul.
Come, I pray
Christmas day
December, 22nd 2014
Merry, holy Christmas!
The skin of the angels 