Petals of roses are scorched before noon,
And it’s just February, my month of woes.
Laughter becomes suppressed in the face
Of relighting the dark woods of a wintrous,
Unfeeling December, when the census of beasts
Takes place by the spine of the jungle.

O beating heart, fast and deadly, your tremours
Elephants tramp on the merriment of immigrants,
When they dance to the beats of stolen drums.
O heart, where is thy strength for this languor
That spins webs of confrontations?

The winter has her own woes, that’s why she rubs
Hard on the skin. And the howls of insensitive winds
Make up for the broken sinews of last April, when Easter
Made promises from the tongue of a silenced river.

Webs hung on the frail frames of a haunted heart.
Entrenched in the hollows of manhood are words of
Oblations, long recited for courage in the face of pestilence.

Dark waters stood at dawn to mock me.
I trembled from the stutters of crows
When they choose the wrong south route
To reach an earnest east, through belfries fastened
To my skull.

Every breath was leavened with stale gusts of air.
My ribs rustled among themselves without charge.
My hair stood on end to welcome wraiths of departed
Winds. And the months crawled fast upon their fetid feet.

February loosened up to the haste of winter, when
Chasubles broke with the grimace of tired faces.
March was full of indictments.
April came with consternated truth, denying ever knowing me.
I should have lent credence to winter’s crime by the course
Of an anointed river, but my silence woke the anger of a
Once lucid and placid May.
June reclined on a hill and descried the coming of my future.
A future so frightening that summer hid behind it.

O heart, how you have pounded through
The season! How you have fared through
A famished desert! How the weltering ocean
Waves coursed through your soft doors,
Crashing the supple flesh you’re clothed in!
O heart, O heart, how the loose festivals of
Death stared you in your wrinkled face!
The guns and arms of fire – they frightened the spell
By which you are bound.

I bow to my woes.
They are indispensable woes wearing sable garments
For unending mournings.
I envy the terns on their wingy flights from
Port to port, yet remain parts of heaven.

Where do I go from here?
Even the funeral crowd has long dispersed
Through the dank routes of enchanted forests.
And the wedding crowd has eaten all repasts
Served to soothe the air of a strafed village.