WinterSolstice

In the snow, I see the gravestones sinking fast.

Let the tops pass out of sight

Beneath a gentle blur of white

For I came to this land to lose my past.

Could this winter set me free at last?

Through purple clouds, the sun sinks, bleeding red.

Upon a crimson pyre she dies

Yet shall none prevent her rise

When I’ve long tossed untranquil in my bed.

Could it be that what I mourned was never dead?

The pregnant moon shrugs off the clouds’ control

And condescends to spill her glow

Silver upon the sleeping snow.

I came here in the hope to free my soul.

Shall I, like the round moon, sometime soon be whole?