The winged stars poise over the city,
Frozen by the breath of the cold women.
The moon is a frail defiance to the cold women,
Waning to a last chilled wisp.
What is more cool than the girlish dawn?
She peeps over the arched shoulder of the moon
And calls the sun like a frightened child.
What is more cruel than the sun to a frost?
But there is no whiteness
Like the whiteness of these women.
The sun labors at parting in fear-fraught anguish,
Knowing how her womb must yield the twilight
To the indifference of the cold women.
These are the heavens of the cold women,
Timorous and benumbed.
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