In the shadows of cold, darkened halls,
Cell mates whisper through the walls.
Peter Peregrine, lost in thought,
Remembers the battles life once fought.
By his side, the quiet old saint,
Juan Quintana, weathered but faint,
with hands that tremble in prayer’s soft grace,
he finds his peace in this captive place.
Outside the window, the wind’s harsh bite—
It’s an old man’s winter night tonight.
The world grows dim, the frost is deep,
while men like them learn how to keep.
Of Annandale, they speak no more,
of how he went out with no uproar,
A silent fall, a final rest,
with little left but a quiet chest.
Cliff Klingenhagen, hard and stern,
Once had lessons he couldn’t learn.
In every vice, he drank his fill,
which left his body cold and still.
And a man of iron, who men deplore,
He stands alone by the cell’s cold door—
His portrait—savage, painted strong,
With sins that shade the darkest wrong.
Yet here they dwell, side by side,
All their stories, nowhere to hide.
In this place where time runs thin,
they reckon now, with what’s within.
WoPoLi 
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