Cold Lament

Here, atop the pinnacle,

Where howling winds

Chill the bone and soul

And blazing fireflies

Summon the last vestiges

Of light, I stand. The vast

Valley opens up before me,

Sleeping in white, tranquil;

The fig tree, fruitless, in

Patient silence await the

Warm Spring, Mother-life,

Arched o’er the frozen lake.

 

One must cling onto hope,

Lest he’s to perish in this Hadean hail.

 

Oh, you crystal daggers, servants

Of the Under-King! spare this young

Heart and its dream, the dream of

Spring! oh, how burns the ice, how

Cold the light! There, I see the rivers

Frozen, the forests ghastly pale; and

No flowers, to bloom! Time, pinion!

Countless Winters you’ve to Spring

Transformed; shall this Winter, too,

End, with me alight in joy an’ love?