Poem: The Winter Sun.

The first rays of the Winter sun touch my face.
The leaves have fallen,
Along with Autumn,
And frost covers this once live place.

I sit at my window, in my lonely room,
Watching the mournful sun,
Now that ice and frost have come,
And that the cold season freezes the last bloom.

The cheerful symphony that birds sing
Has ceased, alas,
But shall return to us,
With the sun and warmth of the Spring.

Alba Besson