No verses do you inspire in me
Nor are you quite January
The tail end of the winter that you may be
Alas you are the month of miscarriages
And babes born prematurely.
No mother in their right mind
Would conceive babes in May
Not in our enlightened age
Nay! No more.
To be born in February.
Winter equinox in northern spheres
The days are shorter than a May's breeze
Me: daydreaming of hay and the sound of nay
In lands further away
With Interludes of bouzaka, ouzo and meze
Darkens the days
Therefore the birds are flightless and lifeless
On the barren boughs.
The air dense with mist
And the smoke from Frozen vehicles' exhaust pipes
Blackens my throat
My voice is frozen
My blood jellylike in my bones
March is further than the silk route
In thine north pole of mine soul.