They call the silence deafening, here in these winter hills. It is quite a profound and abject stillness.
The cold has even bid the night creatures to ban their hunts; there will be no prey, and the hunters themselves risk death. Better then, to go hungry and feast in the times of thaw, where the ice and snow become fresh water.
I pull my hood close to keep what fleeting warmth remains.
But in the starry darkness I wonder if it’s the silence that’s deafening, or the world deaf to the cries of my heart.
Am I just a child tugging on the hem of a guardian angel too tall to see me?
Do these snowy mountains hide me from celestial view?
Does the silence shroud me as it smothers the longing of my soul?
This silence, this wintry, bitter silence is far more active than being deaf.
It’s indifference to me makes it all the colder.
Useless then, to go on.
Soon I too will lie under a blanket of snow, and become one with the silence.