Dismally she sits and waits in winters'slumber, herself awake and dreary, wide-eyed and dull, silent and listening. To what she listens to is breathed in the soft whispers of the new years' eve, silent prayers and pleas marked and tallied, counted by the stars; one wish granted, one star falls. The morning lacks to move her, a likeness not yet in her, a desire not yet inside her. Slumber does not yet take her. A pale light does then find her, a sitting spot on a soiled rug, the ends with tassles and intriquite design; the needle of the mind and threads of inspiration locked in knots, unwilling, unfinding, unable to be undone. But what does she wait for? While the cold winter rays fall and spill slowly over icy deaths of dreamers yet to rise, in the hollow caves of lovers' home where they surrender their hearts and lives, or in the bows of rocking cradles where the restless dreamers stir, why does she sit and wait so still, while the grey days melt to a blue-shaded blur? What has taken her? Eyes so set upon a wanten fate, feet stripped and naked before an unlocked gate, she sits and she sits, oh why does she wait?