The winter's lament.

The snow descends, a silent, ghostly rain, Each flake a fragile, diamond-dusted pane. He moves, a solitary, somber grace, A silhouette against the moon's pale face. The wind, a mournful, ethereal sigh, Carries the echoes of a distant cry. Each step a whisper, on the frozen ground, A lonely rhythm, without a single sound. The world, a canvas, blanketed in white, Reflects the emptiness within his sight. He walks, a shadow in the winter's hold, A story whispered, ages yet untold. The snow falls ever, a celestial dance, A mournful lullaby, a cold trance. He walks, alone, beneath the watchful moon, A soul adrift, in this pale, wintery swoon.