Repressed Voice

Every morning at the window aside, I find myself waiting for the sun, To raise up and melt the snow, The frost so hoar and numb. Brooding on my thoughts so long, Never did they hatch in this icy alp, So still I keep waiting for the sun, To watch this avalanche realm's fall. In the darkness of night, I waited, With a melancholic lullaby to lull- The lucid sky to a dreamless sleep, So the sun can drive in brisk. Imbibing the cold wester I lay, With my fossilising will, to stand, Gaped eyes set at the horizon, Oathed never to shut but die. Alpine sun flaming high above, Melting ice, watering my hopes, My reflections blooming in the buds, I kiss my death, ineffably alive.