Winter Evenings

< 1 min read

Winter evenings.

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.

Home.

Empty streets.

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.

Poetry.

Amour.

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?

Long nights.

Burning wood.

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.

Your thoughts?