We have "The Wait."
I'll read the final one from "The Wait."
The mantle made with snow.
With floods icicle crested.
White and steep, dark ravine.
My wishes like birds need winter's
cool and going to sleep.
Your face not seen is not one thing.
Your hero.
One night's firefly wanders the dark.
The very place is yours.
Why ask them?
Where am I?
Love mantle with snow.
I'll hear your phoenix wings when you draw near.