Close the windows, close the doors, it’s a lament of cold December, Light the candles before the sun goes. Gloomy skies, frost-laced night, and I wonder by what art, One can dream beneath such a dark veil. This longing evening feels like endless moors, Clinging to the edge, an ache that echoes—evanescent. Blessed with fleeting bliss, yet so little to hold "Firelit, ere the sable, wane the woes of the night, Though eerie by twilight, the soul trembles, delicate, Read as if the stars had whispered, in quiet, softened light." "Reviving amidst flicker of cakes flame, unwiser, imprudent, delusional, Aged, but essence remains. Dawn came Yearning shadowed veil, candles were dead windows open wide, where December dies.