The muse of the very first poem ever written, could be.
The ambiguous tinge of early darkness
Evokes emotion, resembles loneliness, longs warmth.
Men buried deep into their layers of wool,
Yearning a warm supper after an arduous day’s work
And the love of a good woman.
A home only to the homeless.
Their bond, strongest, over pieces of burning wood
And the dreams of a liveable life.
A lover, far away, found his solace.
He embraced the solitude of the winter evenings
While the nib of his pen wrote of unrequited love.
The winter evenings longed for warmth, elsewhere.
The separated cherished the dream of a reunion, while,
The united felt confined in the very skin of the love they wore.
Men went out to conquer the world. Each, their own.
Curbed by the length of day, some rose while others fell. A blessing or a curse, these shortened days, in a man’s world?
A patient listener of stories, for generations.
Grey-haired story-tellers gathered around its fire,
Longing warmth in the conversations nurtured by old-age.
A tragic beauty in itself, these winter evenings
The calm before the storm, these winter evenings
The craving and the consequence, these winter evenings
And yet, the soul is truly one, only with these winter evenings.