“Et nunc cedo equidem pugnasque exosa relinquo.”
I do not see the mountains standing strong,
indifferent, cold above the humming fray,
nor see the clean streets tainted by the throng;
Yet blinded by the snow, I see the way.
Death becomes this broken clock, released
from time and all its works; eternity
compels the soul, and brings it to the feast
of self-surrender and finality.
“The door is always open”, said the sage,
And through that gaping portal go the chaff,
detritus, misfits, freaks of every age;
As I go with them, fate can only laugh.
The winter dark bestows its final kiss;
The wise man smiles, and points to the abyss.