February
February
Was never more cold
than this moment.
Everything has withered, dreams
and leaves are whirling down
from your hair.
No scarf can wrap
around this, there are no words
to throw around you
that would protect against the
cheeck-chastisising draft of
doors that are not closing,
the endless countryroad that
is not allowed to carry
any more snow,
and all these images that
rage your summerhope to pieces
like a frosty tropic storm
until your lips falter
into a thin line
of silence.
Indifference, after all,
has no shape, but only
a title:
February.
(waiting for the summer never takes longer than in the shortest month)
Replies
I have been writing poetry since I was 14, yet I rather don\'t mention those early creations as they had a certain Frankenstein quality to them. I got slightly better around 17 as I started reading poetry as well. Originally I write in dutch, and since I play with the language a lot this translation doesn\'t really do the original justice. I still wanted to post it since a lot of my poetry is closely connected to the seasons due to my SAD. Hope you like it! Maybe I will translate and post some more later. Perhaps a brighter one, on summer.
That\'s nice.