A frosty rose, fallen on frosted grass, felt stiff but brittle when I nudged it with my foot,
will melt, wither to white dust. The sun, blaringly bright, low in the sky, near noon, did not deceive me,
gave no heat, no, not in November. Remembered last night, tried to write, but my inspiration froze.
Lone star, hid by a cloud, no eye can see it shine, yet somehow it is sensed, could not find a further line.