The December sun

The southern sun is barely white. The birds are lost flocks clouds are hiding. Lunco is blowing cold hum of Adalar. Phalanx of waves shields of mother-of-pearl a rocky moan is tapping. The shoulders of the mountains are steep the original fur it is snowing, and under the spreads under the fan of the furry foam dripping silver rain of oil. And the spirit of fire above the chimneys, blue, flying, dispirited, and it smells like prunes. V.V.