On a day in December,
with days growing short,
memory is an ember,
firing life's last resort.
Some memories are crystal,
some are dark with regret,
some are only a riddle
I can never forget.
Some I will cling to,
some I gladly let go,
soft kisses I once knew,
pain I could not show.
In time's dim archive,
all the up and the down,
lets me know I'm alive,
till the mystery is found.
I am old but I still plan
a new memory or two,
to take a last stand,
give December its due.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Winters are harsh but man develops a resistance against the harsh cold. A thoughtful write.
Life is often cold but it is still quite worthwhile. Glad you liked the poem.