Outside, the Sun rests
In the laps of his mistresses,
The rays, gorgeously gravitating
Towards the earth, still nursing
Her wounds of winter,
Covering her naked self with fallen leaves
Of a dying tree, who has fought bravely,
A battle that was not meant to be won.
The window pane has a splotch of fog
Perhaps the fist mark of our nemesis,
Spring is yet to prepare and
Summer is stuck in far east
We must escape before
The moon turns pale again.
Bring out the boats,
We must skate through this icy river.
He will come back, one more time
For his final assault, the winter.
Featured Image- ‘The Winter Scene’ (Hendrick Avercamp, 1620)
Eyes opened when it was still dark,
the night was whining making herself stark.
the moon was shining high, blowing winds in retard,
sun trapped between two hills in his backyard.
confusion persisted whether dawn followed or dusk preceded
somehow night and day felt succeeded.
in his own little yurt he felt uneasy,
the same old part of the globe once made him cosy.
the world had changed,
adaptation was far fetched.
a sudden cold wave had replaced the warm tropical breeze
somehow life around him had deceased.
where were the people who once resided the city?
the foul dead soil was feeling pity.
the scene was disturbing,
as if he was the left trash after a disaster curbing
his mind was all but numb,
no wonder he had throat choked of lump
somehow the calamity, the unknown and the nature had mated
in his own world, he was left alone, alienated…