Its cold

My hand is stiff and numb against the pen

I can see the sun

The buildings are stained red and gold

The clouds pale

Shadows streak black smears across the streets

One falls on my face

The paper catches fire in the fading light

My eyes blur

Wind screams shrilly in the rooftops

I'm shivering

Things are different here.

It's cold

My shoulders shake against my will

I'm tired

Sunlight warms me briefly, a caress

Huddled on my corner

Towering monoliths of stone and steel

Flashing golden, silver

Golden, silven, but silven's not a word

It's a name

The name of the city that's my city now

Silent and bathed in evening

Ice feeding the fire while across a wall sprawl twisted words

The language of this place

Il breeoth

Iach nol leaemeth

Silae olmad noth logan

Iach brith

Brith tol mae lucam degan