The January wind
bangs
against the window-panes,
maliciously twists
the black bones
of shivering trees,
racks
Baroque clouds
in a scudding cycle
of dreams,
under which rooks,
like cast-out
angels,
frolic,
cough up hermetic
blasphemies
on a grey day
without snow.
Leo Yankevich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/silesian-landscape/
