the crisp winter doesn’t suffice the coldness now spreading over my limbs,
like death is overcoming me, that its chasing me down with its fast legs,
arms stretching me dragging me down to,
but she will have a place in heaven,
with wine and milk,
and miles and acres of land with fig trees,
there she will find her husband, her lost first child,
her second child, and her third,
and one day,
if I’m not as bitter as I have become,
maybe I too,
will visits the gates of heaven