My winter is yellow. Like memories of old. The photographs fade slowly in my mind. In place of those frayed images, I see the patterned sky. I feel the presence of my friends. Those ghosts who kept me going. The air is dry and filled with cries of night jar - the bird that sounds like a friendly soul. I love the night that hugs my roof. The stars that dangle in my mind. They tell the stories of old that only stars can still remember. The sleep will come and I will dream of ancient goddesses and gods discretely move on the checkerboard of life.
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