Winter Winds Playing Games with the Old Man’s Poor Heart
The never-ending clarion knocking
on the old rusty front gate
forced the old slumberless man
to come out of his warm bed,
and walked through the stygian darkness
of the night,
crossing the deserted gardens
of his abandoned castle —
which once had
blithe spirits and echoed bosky scents and blooms of spring.
Trying to walk apace,
desperately hoping to see someone,
it took him an eternity to reach.
No one was at the door;
winter winds were playing games
with his poor heart.
“Alas, why does it betide me — an old soul, in life already so hard,”
singing in a plangent voice,
far from the madding crowd,
the old man turned back —
on a toilsome journey to go back to his bed.
…Wind howled through the trees while a thunderstorm shook the firmament.