The Oracle feels the winter too. Once again the rose is the symbol of hope.

Dead days
I want there to be music, not this ache
just beneath the light that never shines,
not the bitterness of tongues
that cannot form words of compassion,
those men who place a finger to their lips.
The lake is bleak today, gunmetal grey,
mirroring the light that never shines,
full of cold breath and water running
to the sea, beneath a canopy of ice.
The moon is dead, turned into the cold night,
and frost-mist rises around our feet,
one with the sky, cloud-fog filling
our dreamless sleep.
The roses too sleep within their frozen buds,
licked and furred with hoarfrost,
dreaming of the light that shone and will shine.
They will not recall these dead days.
