A painted red tree, and a hole in the snow carpet,
both barely visible from the view
of the nearest windowpane, covered in frost. I suppose
that from the perspective of the universe, we too
are nearly disappearing each minute,
receding further and further into a fabric haze of memories
and portraits drawn on torn canvases. From
high enough up, even a crimson-tinted tree
looks no different than the evergreens beside it,
their hoary majesty testifying to the fact
that seasons, too, come to an end,
like the cruel glare of the winter sun by morning.
I was writing you a letter asking forgiveness on the day
when the stop stopped shining, and I thought
I was the only one in the world still visible from outer space.
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