Winter’s Son

Winter, will you not have mercy on your son? Will you rob me from embracing those I love? You have swallowed many, pardoned none, yet your gut still hungers, flashing teeth above. It grinds at a slow pace, with you, the wind never ceases to roam. There is no mercy in you; you will take me too, in the eye of a whistling storm. When their embrace remains stained with sadness, a storm will burst from all around and fling your bare fangs upon the shouting madness, and my songs alone will be the spring.

Carry these words

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