Ice age reflection
Who can believe in spring
in this diverted ice age
of deep-freeze constancy in lethargy,
depression, anguish and sterility,
where there is hardly any space and outlet
but for languishment, surrender and despair?
They say the snow is white and pure and beautiful,
it is, of course, but just to look at, not to live in,
and we are obliged to be snowed-in indefinitely,
ruthlessly buried alive by winter.
Still, the spring is somewhere waiting for us,
although it seems farther off than ever,
hardly even to be dreamt of by a realist;
and meanwhile we will have to be content
with all the charm of this delightful
pure white beautiful sterility and hardness
of at least a temporary ice age.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2010-02-12 at 13:18
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