Lilacs out

VI. Aftermath In the aftermath I walk through the fields, half frozen, half soaked winter-kissed fields. The black water gazes before me through the still trees, and drops of thick air fall on my lips. The frozen fairy queen comes out of her sternly forgotten remembrance grave. Elves and warriors sit at the hearth, in thought or in flesh, and we laugh and revel until the last light. Some birds chirp like they're waving "hello" to the falling dark, bringing hope to this end, bringing wood to this fire.

V. Christmas The world spins, death has come and it is the third day. I've seen the mountains and I've felt the Sun. I've seen the bleak grass and I've felt the thick fog. Nothing ever goes as planned, be it for a spiteful God in the heart of old and angry souls, be it for the foul filth of life that raging swallows me, be it for the mirth and breeze that come with breathing life. My heart is lighter and aches like my fragile flesh. Elven smiles and sweeter words, feeling like there's more to say.

IV. One day The sky has darkened. Death is coming. The day that should not be, one more day was left and laughs before us, heavy clouds with no rain following me. Winter comes, tomorrow and at last. Time will pass, and this year will rest. The tomb will stay closed for three days and I'll wait by the hearth. Winds howl, the vortex makes me weaker, I'm on my knees while I watch the wreaths and all humans around. I let out every breath. As serenity comes I wait for the last day. I foresee its dawn, and the fight of tomorrow.

III. Reed I'm a reed on the banks of the river. I tell a story, and the wind gives me the colours. Pearl of the South, Black of the North, Grey of the East, and Rose of the West. I'm a reed, I'm the story I tell. Sometimes I wish I could stop and savour a wind: I breathe in and dream, and westward I gaze. The sunset is near.

II. Trail So much air passes us by, like years on my flesh yet I'm young at heart. Devilish warmth slithers on the Earth as peace seems shallow and far. Wisps and elves hop along my trails, and regardless of incumbent death this unreal spring revels with them on the ashes that will be.

I. Earthing As the light dies out and every day is darker I shiver less and less and let myself sink in the mud of memory. Once clear water of warm winter, the dirt is swallowing what is of me, and I rage to inevitable death and unforeseeable thaw.

The Northerner or A Journey: a poem in four parts. I. One of Many Mornings The ground is still and gentle frost embraces it, the sky is painted rose and greyish light blue. My heart cracks like cold ice on warm windows and the light is dying. Like a wolf among sheep I travel to the city of the shepherd, soul heavy with thoughts just breathing and gasping for the year's last air. Before Yule. II. December  At dawn the body aches with life, and the foul stench of it follows me like ghosts haunt ancient ruins. Christmas wreaths decorate walls, and farmers sleep cozy regardless of the world on fire. At times I wish I could be as careless, but then I breathe and hold my burden in my frostbitten hands and walk fiercely through the night. III. Railroadside The fog hides our struggles and the countryside rests, our weary bones ache while the powerful play proceeds. Pieces of cloth and dirty windows separate us from the cold of Fa...

The world burns. Regardless, we resist. Sweetly, we resist. A brief touch of hands on the morning bus, we resist. A soft kiss on the lips in the winter's frost. We resist and live.