Siberia

Firstly I wrote this poem in Hungarian on a cold winter day and once I decided to translate...

The hoar-spirited bushes hide and lie...
The old glacier of the ice sky
Wears the hard coffin of chill.
The moon feels cold. It becomes ill.

/The sound of a pack of wolves bites into the wind,
The snow storm roars echo throught the wild.../

Reviews

[conspicuousleaf]

I love the line: "The snow storm roars echo throught the wild" Great poem!

[Steven Croat]

Thank you!