Ice and snow
Have got their grip.
Only wisps spiralling from
Chimneys are masters
Of their destiny, fleeing
Unfettered, into the ether.
Not so human soles,
Defiant, yet bound
To wander along predetermined lines,
By those who know in advance
That war has once more been waged.
Reaction, hasty and brave,
Employs dark forms that glide
To all corners
Like frenzied beetles,
Dismantling enemy barriers
By shredding them into white confetti;
It seems a celebration
But it is only an illusion,
Soon these dark monsters
Will need to rise again.
In that interregnum between
White war and white peace,
Colours suddenly appear,
First from windows
Then doors;
They come, transforming into
Recognisable forms,
Heads, bodies, arms, legs,
Laughing, yelping, dancing,
Rolling, crying in their
Crystalline paradise;
Only the wise know,
This is a phoney peace.
In no time black flags unfurl
On high, the white knights,
Beating their arms cry:
Let battle commence.
The war wages for weeks,
Its battle lines shifting,
High and low,
Near and wide;
Then, suddenly, as it
Appeared, like
A thief in the night,
The enemy melts away.
It leaves a grim inheritance:
Rivers breaking banks,
Debris,
Broken lives.
This year the white terror,
Was held back at cost,
Soon another onslaught is near,
This is crystal clear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem