reminiscence

Upon a cold winter's morn, upon an icy ground bereft of snow, by the few breaths of cold, and the tree's remaining gold, Sun mysteriously reflects reminiscing a song of old.

Where she walks, alas here no more, flocks of birds gold chirpy follow, announcing the sweet nectar of spring,
Where she walks? Alas, here no more...

And by her feet she danced softly, beneath the rugs of snow ... summoning the green.
She twirled and laughed, through the air, and the ground stowed with merit sprang the green saplings.

Oh, how I remember, the play of loe, that pounds my heart, and her expectancy in the cry she uttered: "It comes!"

Alas Sun, begone! Leave me to my apathy, to rot in solitude, I don't need to remember the sunbreak and the Pegasus
Nor the Moon's longing. Sun, resign the slavery to my thoughts, begone from this pen, alas Sun, begone!

O, lady of winter, why do you profess my solitude, when thou art wretched as much as your perfect sister?
Aren't those rivers that gushed from mountains, frozen yet still there?
Those long rivers that flew from me, to the silent lips of memory, I dare to bare?
Begone Sun! Every mad man has a corner of heart that he dares not enter nor say.

Still the sand slowly falls through sand-glass ...
The silent regret, now overwhelms. Slowly, slowly... it came.

I would have kissed the toes with whom she touches ground,
Lain there, beneath her stars, long gaze upon her hair,
Mayhap lost upon this well of wishes, or just there,
Entwined with her spirit, lost, entranced, by her haze.

Mayhap I'm just tired of singing this song over and over.