The Glittering Multitudes

The voices asked me, how I am? Told them,"Fine", they won't understand. The Cassiopeia seemed to ask again, The same question I've been imagining for days. While gazing out of the French window, And watching the beautiful but fatal snow, I wonder how a man would feel, Packed in the same snow and sealed; Gazing those glittering multitudes, And seeing no warmth or pity in those few. Years later, I'm back to this place, Everything's same from the window to the snowflakes. The weather here's still cold, But so am I now. The gust came uninvited, Through the French window. And so the old story reignited, As I watched the mountains of snow. Now when I think about the old man, I think how funny it was for him to die, While he kept expecting warmth under that spruce.. From all those merciless glittering multitudes.....