In this cold I sailed,
On the white paths of white crystals,
With the dim lights on the street,
Buttons and zips are tight up through my body,
Breath of white smokes coming out from before my lips,
Frozen hair which means the emptiness of the wind,
A mile to be brought down,
Legs keep on rowing to be faster then the slow,
Halfway with a thought of a missing book on the hands,
Stare and think with a possibility of going back,
But straight he walks to the place,
Not looking back going through fresh crystals,
To his place on the left final cut,
The place called home.
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