one

Leaves swirl across a canvas.
In the hands of an artist,
colour is its own muse.
In the hands of the wind,
icebergs are clay to be molded with the whisper of
light and air.
And in Hafnir,
time stands still while ghosts gaze from empty
windows,
And memories scatter rose petals across a sunlit floor flooding the
room with the sorrow of lost love.