Violet beads of light, with a flourish,
Obliterate the dreams of
Mangled marigolds
Who wither,
Throwing themselves prostrate
As the storm of snow
Prematurely buries
Their little hearts.

Yet this snow is not snow.
The stony tears
Of debris, instead,
Of falling buildings
In disrepair
A monument to the end,
To a new era.

The statue to the right,
Under the unforgiving harshness
Of the elements,
Manages to continue
Pointing east.

It is time to leave,
But it is hard no matter what the circumstances.