The January wind
bangs
against the window-panes,

maliciously twists
the black bones
of shivering trees,

racks
Baroque clouds
in a scudding cycle
of dreams,

under which rooks,
like cast-out
angels,

frolic,
cough up hermetic
blasphemies

on a grey day
without snow.

Leo Yankevich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/silesian-landscape/