Winter

A poem by Alfred Lichtenstein

A dog shrieks in misery from a bridge
To heaven... which stands like old gray stone
Upon far-off houses. And, like a rope
Made of tar, a dead river lies on the snow.
Three trees, black frozen flames, make threats
At the end of the earth. They pierce
With sharp knives the rough air,
In which a scrap of bird hangs all alone.
A few street lights wade towards the city,
Extinguished candles for a corpse. And a smear
Of people shrinks together and is soon
Drowned in the wretched white swamp.

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