iv.
- 1 minNo one else can hear
the voice of the dead.
But the echoes
reverberate through my ear
and flood into my mind.
The sound ― crisp with the cold of December ―
is not a cry, but a song of remembrance.
No one else can hear
the voice of the dead.
But the echoes
reverberate through my ear
and flood into my mind.
The sound ― crisp with the cold of December ―
is not a cry, but a song of remembrance.