February’s attire is full of white.
On the skyline, the silhouette of Orion, --
just another shoulder to cry on.
Thus, I’m enduring cold nights.
It’s two months since you’ve left me. Since
the weather turned cold. Since the sunrise
last caressed the horizon
with warmth. At least, so it seems.
Weaving the spider-webs of the constellations,
the muse of astronomy catches my gaze.
Drifting off into space,
I am losing my patience.
People say that the cosmos is vast,--
but there’s nowhere to hide my sorrow
when the moon, like a bookmark, sticks out of
the time that’s long passed…