O Winter, tis I, who until this moment
You have been merciful in bestowing upon me your sympathies,
But to my dearest friend, Persephone, you encroach her freedom,
Forbidding her from entering into the mortal world because
Just as spring was burgeoning forth, your harsh winds whirled.
Answer me this, O Winter, doth she not suffer the same fate as you,
Imbued with the life we all desire only after capitulating to the flame and fire?
Wouldn't you too writhe in agony if you sought to escape your tormentors,
But time and time again were hopelessly delayed?
Winter, I beseech you; release Persephone from the underworld,
where, despite her power, she struggles amidst the prisoners
for some semblance of normalcy because, whereas she once believed in the fertility of the land,
Now her captors have disillusioned her to that of which she was enamored by,
and the more Persephone is dissatisfied with all she lays eyes upon,
the more negative connotations the spring comes to have and, in its aftermath,
There is none other than Death itself and due to its dismal condition,
Not only will the world not be replenished, but nor will anyone else.
O Winter, I beseech you; delve into its benefits and release Persephone from the underworld.