In this town
The annual snowfall
Hanging on the rare and solitary trees
Brings nothing new.
It is merely
A veteran out on his daily stroll
Leaning on his wooden cane.

The same tales of war
Told a hundred times,
The same brand of cigarettes offered in friendship
And the same eyes accompany him
Dark and lazy,
And the dry rhythmic tap of his cane
Until his silhouette disappears
Into the long shadows of rooftops
Dripping
In terrible slowness...