The Tourist
28th August 2002, 16:50
I wrote this quite a long time ago. I based it kinda on this poem called "April," by someone I can't remember.
Winter
Why, Winter, will you return?
I am not sad,
Not yet.
But your misery will pass,
Not into decline,
But into me.
Those Summer days of fun will be gone,
Not just from time but from memory.
And without the sun I am lost,
Without light, without happiness.
I need not your dismal sky of ruin,
Nor your horizon of greyish death.
And with this judgment I am not alone,
For others, too, will fill with hate.
Stand back, Winter,
Before I run away, across the border of the yellow sunlight.
Emigration,
That’s what I need.
Winter
Why, Winter, will you return?
I am not sad,
Not yet.
But your misery will pass,
Not into decline,
But into me.
Those Summer days of fun will be gone,
Not just from time but from memory.
And without the sun I am lost,
Without light, without happiness.
I need not your dismal sky of ruin,
Nor your horizon of greyish death.
And with this judgment I am not alone,
For others, too, will fill with hate.
Stand back, Winter,
Before I run away, across the border of the yellow sunlight.
Emigration,
That’s what I need.