Wintry Culture

At the sea level a polished ice.

Under it,

two polite humanoids that cannot pass,

Their painful courtesy increasing

against the cold crusted water.

 

I have the urge to cry.

I have for years.

 

The storm swirls deeply,

Blurring boundaries between

The dead and the sea.

 

The winter will sail

beyond borders and shore,

an elegant hole in the warm web of living.

 

For now,

nude humanoids,

Scratching at the well-kept surface

Of a national ice.

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