here's the wind: whistling a familiar tune, as if
we need it to blow in our faces to remind us,
condemn us for, ridicule our beliefs.
here's the fog: thicker than it was in the famous
Bleak House, creeping everywhere all the time
for what hasn't yet come to pass.
and this mad season,
synced to the feral Furies,
(no worse than you or us),
running wild on the fields
it clings to you like a leech
after the scent of fresh blood
this mad season, it's a disease:
it thrives on your sticky fear of
the unknown, unmoving.
it waits to hear your voice
and steals all under your breath.
it claims your hands within its
claws, leaves you cold, shivering.
oh, this mad season—how endless it seems!
Just something that came to me yesterday. Probably a consequence of returning to school and getting ready for the cold, wet weather of October and the following months, all that will likely come too soon, too fast. By the way, 'Bleak House' is by Charles Dickens, another awesome work of his (though my favourite among his novels has always been 'Great Expectations') which starts by depicting a very heavy mist if I remember correctly. Sonbahar, fall, autumn, l'automne, autunno, otoño, Herbst, осень, 秋, இலையுதிர் காலம்... always found it as a time so sad and broken.