windswept, frostbitten

old one again

you don’t belong to the realm of words
but that of snow, of the grey winter skies
at the outskirts of small towns
where pine trees meet
industrial zones
black smoke rises to white clouds
where the rain both taints and cleanses
and still
there is nothing in you
to be purified
nothing to be washed away
in this land
of primal shrieks and silences
your honesty
is the only ritual
of purification, of blessing
and confession, repentance
is where we,
windswept and frostbitten
look each other in the eye
in a snowstorm
without blinking
and if we, even once
find each other
by the same campfire
i no longer need to chant
devotionals
to lost gods