A prelude of madness.
An overture of sadness.
This dusty soul keeps no remains,
as death is coming as my creaking dead bane.
I see him everywhere, but then I laugh.
As I see, that he is nothing but daft.
Why he would want me?
When no-one else would.
Why would he care?
When I myself cannot.
Wandering this wasteland of barren foes,
I stop at the gates,
Hope, too low.
Gaze longingly at that orb,
as it fills you with warmth.
But this cold feeling,
is coming from the North.
It cackles like a witch in her castle,
cursing me with a fiery haggle.
The greenery freezing over,
the white has now,
gone to closure.
Seeping into the clothes now worn,
the slimy feeling only torn.
The North is where I now stand.
cracking this unholy sand.
A painting of beauty,
A painter but lost;
The colors blending,
Vision... lost.
The wind is now howling,
as I step through,
This ode to a lie,
This ominous prelude.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem