Winter


The snow is falling - the wind is blowing.
The sea is stagin a free for all.
The night is eerie - the darkness scary.
You get a feeling the rig might fall.


The hearth is heavy - you thoughts depressing.
What is the reason for all our toil?
You get an answer - that`s unfulfilling.
Just greed - and money - Black Gold - the oil.



Golden poems from Stavanger