Winter’s Son

Winter, will you not have mercy on your son? Will you rob me from embracing those I love? You have swallowed many, pardoned none, yet your gut still hungers, flashing teeth above. It grinds at a slow pace, with you, the wind never ceases to roam. There is no mercy in you; you will take me too, in the eye of a whistling storm. When their embrace remains stained with sadness, a storm will burst from all around and fling your bare fangs upon the shouting madness, and my songs alone will be the spring.

About this poem

This poem was originally written in Hebrew. To see the Hebrew version, click here.

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