"The Seventh Of January" Written By Milena Grubor

It is the seventh of January’s hour,

When ancient bells recall the birth and power.

Yet joy lies gentle, like a fading flower,

Pressed softly in the book of winter’s bower.

The streets lie hushed beneath a drifting white,

Their paths concealed beneath the snow’s soft light.

The city seemed to breathe that quiet night,

As though it paused to honor what was right.

Somewhere the holy bread had been broken,

A humble sign, a sacred, loving token.

Two empty chairs remembered hearts unspoken,

While candlelight endured, its warmth unbroken.

The family gathered, bowed in prayer and song,

Yet I was absent, where my heart belonged.

The candle trembled, glowed, then slipped along,

A gentle witness to the love still strong.

I longed to join the hearth and those I love,

Yet fate withheld, and snow barred paths above.

If this should be the last bright eve I'll ever see,

Let silence keep my absence solemnly.