Gathered in cold,
She wipes her eyes,
We watch with warmth,
The warmth soon dies.
Warm watching doesn’t melt the ice,
Cold gathering in the new room,
Words are buffers, like windows or doors,
The clock struck thrice,
Still the key is not hers.
Stolen by one for whom power is all,
The power of a bully,
Devoid of a soul,
So it has clawed at hers.
