The golden fawn has been traveling through.
Picking at the dry branches of winter,
he carries a memory.
There is a red berry.
There is silence, like God.
Snow continues to fill—
this world.
What would be left of it?
What were these forests built from?
Time after time, I write the same poem.
The same fear of ending .
The same end.
Vaishali Paliwal
December 15, 2025
Moonwater 