THE WINTER OF OUR YEARNING
Comes the winter on chill and rainy wings.
Still bound are we to this sulking time,
This wheel turning endlessly around
The days and nights of lost ambition.
Not living,
Only dreaming away the empty
March of the hours.
A stranger, companionless and alone,
Lost on this earth and not finding it home.
The past is but ashes left to mourn
And the future a troubled mystery
Still hoping to be born.