Winter comes
A death poem
Winter comes earlier than I thought.
Trees still carry their leaves,
but I already smell the icy cold—
the breath of the mountains, far.
I freeze.
There is no time to make things right.
I feed on the agony of leaves alone,
and spring water—once so clear—
has lost its taste, turned bitter.
No hunger.
Winter comes, and it has no friends.
Farewell, Autumn. You were beautiful.
My mind knows no regret,
but it thinks of these wasted days.
Tired. Good night.
†
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