Seasons In Paphos Poem by Mihaela Pirjol

Five o'clock. An afternoon of January.
The chimney is incandescent with fire:
Warmth, comfort, and pleasant mood.
The sun is slow, yet rapidly weaving good-bye
At the horizon; leaving us marvelling at the train
Of its extensive, pink court-gown; to our imagination
Its nocturnal festivity: —once, our own youth—
A sense of longing for the romance of life…

It is going to be a long evening;
As usually this time of year, when January
Loves long nights by the fire, and mulled wine
Spicing the boredom with vapours of exotic flavours:
The grey, melancholic dullness of these days!
When to me—outside—is only my early-morning walk
With my dogs; greeted with a smile of Morning's joy,
Nature's freshness of air, admiring the crystalline

Dew-drops hanging frailly, yet steadfastly
On each verdant-fresh blade of grass:
January's herbage—Cyprus' Spring:
Moist and fresh, adorned with tiny, yellow
Dandelions' coronas accompanying me
Along my walk. There is a walnut orchard,
Barren of its foliage. Its trees are undulating sensually
Their nudity in the vernal air, and the sunrays are casting

A fairy light through their affectionate limbs,
As Autumn's carpet is lying irresistibly at their feet;
Hiding their fallen, forgotten woody fruits.
I taste their iodic savour, while I draw my pace
Nonchalantly, with a cheerful song in my mind,
Enchanted by such disposition of joy
Presented to my being; wandering and wondering
At the yellow-ochre, mossy-wet, almost decomposed foliage,
Yet vibrant with the memory of Summer.

I ponder at the unique beauty of each season:
How unusually are blending—all four in one!
How lovely! The orange and lemon orchards by the sea
Are looking like freshly decorated Christmas-trees!
Sometimes, even Winter is visiting us with its icy-flakes:
Fast, and with an uncommon passion, exalting the senses;
Only to disappear as furiously as it came;
Leaving us collecting hurriedly, holding its white treasure,
Watching it dissolving instantly in our palms, frugally,
As a childhood thought just forms in our minds with it…

We are just reminded how ephemeral all is; but,
We delight in the magic and beauty of all—all at once;
Leaving traces in our souls, the same way
Our breaths are altering the chemistry of atmosphere:
Invisible but present, as the freshness of a memory…
Nothing we touch with our spirit
Will ever be the same again; nor the spirit itself:
We are morphing like energy.