in a place of snow and arias
a hunt for furry and feathery thoughts goes on
and a command for an oven with full seething pots is given
while winter keeps the watch
and the thirst for blood seeps through the forests
driving wolves and hounds to fury
to blood, to torn flesh, to howls of victory or death
and the reward taken raw or broiled
death taken lightly, life murderously enjoyed with iron teeth
the pots are filled, without a doubt
the arias keep soaring
and the guests of honor revel in the accidental aftermath
socrates, that ugly socrates
buried under the cherry-colored snow
artfully painted by the hunting game
with red of deer blood and yellow of hound’s pee
worry that will never be
like a poor cardinal bird
forever framed into people’s christmas cards
of which scheme it cares nothing about
warmth that will flee
winter is a fake comforter and a fake artist
we coldly wait for
for
for
and then,
the first rain, melting the snow
to uncover the naked soil
with all its smells of decay and of awakened seeds
is the artist indeed
