Skip to content

It is midnight.

The coal of the hour burns out in white

embers.

Remains of souls flicker

in the grate.

The shadows

hurl themselves at the walls like torn

birds of prey.

We remain alone,

with that fire which tries to rekindle itself.

from The Book of Snow

Philip Mosley, translation from
the French written by Francois Jacqmin

More from
Poem of the Week

Ed Roberson

Luxe