There was snow
this morning.
In Paris, in Rome.

Crystal and cold,
against the
Vatican dome.

And I saw
your face pressed
to the skies.

When I walked
down that street
all covered with lies.

I see your hands.
dripping
with blood.

And fake
shallow tears.
Drops in the mud.

I didn't shudder
or shout.
Not even one tear.

For despite
the snow.
I'm leaving here.