I hold the World in my hand.
It is not flat as was thought before,
By Those who did not know better.
What seems so boundless, endless
To Those who live there,
Is, in reality, very small,
Sitting there patiently in my palm,
I hold the World in my hand
And turn It upside down,
Then set It upright again
And watch as a Curtain of silver and white
Cascades and hides the World
From my eyes for a few moments.
What are these Creatures of ice
That dance before me,
Tumbling and spinning
Through that empty space called the Sky?
Are They carried over the Land
By mysterious currents of wind?
They are Ephemeral--
They spiral from the Sky,
Floating slowly downward,
And kiss the Earth below,
Where often, sadly, They melt and die--
Their existence is short-lived.
I watch as the Sky clears
And the Earth, iced in white,
As in a dream in which one is but a
The World is small, quiet, unmoving.
Its dead silence calls to me, and I listen,
But I am an Outcast,
Thrust from It,
Only to watch--
Yet, as the World is dead now,
Asleep under its Blanket of coldness,
I am alive and warm.
I hold the World in my hand,
And I am Content.
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