Robin, as you sing your red breast swells
between the frosty branches in this wintry glow.
You cock your head and listen to the bells
across the fields spread white in sequined snow
you hope for frozen morsels, mana from my hand
but do not ask, I throw them down: your tune
like melting icicles, the hope in distant lands
we must all keep. Believe, wipe up our wounds,
like you we must keep singing in the cold,
be bold and hope for miracles, make them happen
as you do when I stretch my hand.