Letras
Winter arrived,
he’d flown overnight.
He’s tired and tetchy,
throws his bags to the side.
His coat of polar bear fur
is not fake.
Goes to the cherry tree,
turns out its light.
For his minimalist chic
he thinks a lot of himself.
He's claimed the wardrobe
and filled seven shelves.
He’s painted the windows,
and whitewashed the roof.
He looks over my shoulder
if I pick up a book.
Dark mornings and long cold
nights,
the sky peppered with little white
lies.
Winter bringing the clean white
sheets in,
but whose bed does he sleep in?
When he drifts off
and I open his case,
and I press his fine linen shirt
to my face.
But whose is this silk dress
and lacy top
Made only of breath
stitched only by frost
Dark mornings and long cold
nights,
the sky peppered with little white
lies.
Winter bringing the clean white
sheets in,
but whose bed
Whose bed does he sleep in?
His hands are like ice
and the north wind blows
A wolf howls in his voice
and it starts to snow.