A Snowdrop in Winter

The wind blew, rustling the brittle branches, dry from the chill and frigid air that made the world seem dead.
              Bleak was the tone of thought, of word, which of practice turns into deeds, and the whole world flipped on end in cruel injustice.  
              For all had gone mad.
              Only to be saved by the sight of a green shoot, that pushed itself up through the hard-bitten ground, and shocked the grey with blinding whiteness; pure snow.
              A small calm begat a small thought, and then a word, and last a deed.  
              The world would change.

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