The winter claims trees’ dawning purity:
ignored, as screaming branches shattersplit,
and noble leaves blur to obscurity
(for to the bitter snow they must submit).
Or analyze these brittle, tortured clouds,
each tiny piece hacked from avenging air
and banished to the brief and blood-stained ground.
Could transient self-pity ever compare?
Your jaundiced glares and grandiose demands,
excuses for your egocentric pleas,
will crack when juxtaposed with wintered lands
and destinies of lacerated trees.
These sterling ones were stolen in your stead.
Your snowing soul should be the shameless dead.