Time ticks slowly

And all I hear is the rustling of the wind,

The music of it's lyre,

The rythm of its swing.

I stare out the window,

At the snow outside

And frown upon a figure,

Curled up against a corner to hide.

The people pass

And the figure fades.

The people leave without any of the figures trace.

I hear a bell

And reach for the door

The dark figure sits before me on my floor.

A child,

Draped with a dark cotton coat,

Shivers with paleness.

My heart,

Weakens with her look.

I hold the figure close

To warm its small bones

And whisper words of sympathy.

I look outside the window now,

Its frightningly dark

And the figure is no longer within my view,

Isn't curled up to hide

And it isnt with me.

For it only offerd to vend a match.

My eyes fogged,

As I bought the half burnt match

And watched the child dissapear holding the copper penny in the snow.

So I took a look at my hands

And I imagine as I give the match a saddened smile,

The figure will last at least,

A little while.