Year-end Melancholy

[lohit]

December is cold and bare,
The smell of dying flesh in the air,
My eyes are sleepy
My mind weary
In my hand, a fat book of tales,
Not of golden knights or maidens fair.....
But of blood, gloom and despair.


The fog throws itself upon dear earth
Long white hands, winter's mirth
Covering for winter
While it rapes dear earth;
The howling wind drowns out the cries....
And the rumours and the whispers...
That the newborn is as cold as ice !


No....it is a stillbirth.


They say spring follows winter...
I wonder
When spring shall show up, if ever;
Or maybe
Winter, in its leisure, will put on spring's robes,
And make a mockery of our hopes,
As every year, our lives wither.


As the year trudges on to its end,
We too are moving towards our destinied ends,
It would do well to remember.


Please comment

[Bar22do]

hello to you, lohit! and welcome! You must have been reading at least Andersen's if not brothers Grimm's tales...!

Actually, if the newborn was stillborn, that would have been the end of the dear earth, wouldn't it?
So it was a cold newborn baby, sent to front by us humans as soon as it gave out its first cry...

I also wonder when if at all spring shall show up - ah, though here almond trees are in blossom, they look as if they're covered with snow! but we know that it's a sure sign for nature's reassuring order of things - the sign spring SHALL eventually arrive...

I don't understand why there is the smell of dying flesh in December air... memento mori has been broadly exploited in thought, art, music... you add your brick here -- but actually, without winter nature could not rest and in rest get renewed, bears could not sleep and then go fishing, skiers would cry and children would sadly bite into the carrots instead of fixing them as snowman noses....
There are riches in the winter and spring WILL come, one more month and then we'll complain about the heat!

If I were you, I'd considerably shorten this poem and do without memento mori, but I'm not you, so please feel free to disregard the following contraction...

Cold December -
in my hand, a fat book of tales,
of blood and gloom.

The fog throws itself upon earth,
long white hands (gripping stones and trees);
the howling wind drowns out the cries,
and the rumours and the whispers
that the newborn is as cold as ice!

I wonder
when spring shall show up, if ever.


it's only a thought.

Keep warm as it's possible to do so these days... Bar