Poetry
I could breathe this bitterly cold night, shivering beneath your shooting star.
I could hold the moon from the sun, the blue sky from the pouring rain.
I could paint the night to be the day of light, and wash our fading age away.
For the silver heart of yours was young and mine,
For the golden skin of yours blessed me with warmth,
For the vigorous arms of yours wrapped me unharmed,
Only if you asked me.
