Desolate appear the landscape,
So far as the eyes can see with ease,
Barren fields and dusty roads,
Grey mountains and naked trees.
Wintry breeze seem to have jagged edges,
Lacerating feel follows numbness on exposed parts,
So people try shielding with armory of garments,
As the grey clouds hang menacingly, like a doomsday art.
So leaden are the skies in winter,
Clouds look pregnant but find precipitation labourious,
As highlands wait for snow and rain in lower vales,
And pave way for sunshine to make places salubrious.
Frost in the morning carpets the grasslands in white,
Mist envelopes villages like feathery blanket in tons,
Rendering the sun too febrile even when at its zenith,
So people warm around fire, gossip-mongering in marathon.
The rich are in the cozy rooms sipping exotic whiskeys,
Some are in the bars gulping cheap rums and brandies,
Peasants in their homes down homemade barley brews,
And teetotalers drink gallons of teas and coffees with candies.
Only snotty nosed children seem immune to cold,
As they play with icicles oblivious to the wintry chill,
Even the tempers of vociferous strays seem to ebb,
As most remain coiled in the street corners, whimpering and still.
But winter is a season to relax and rejuvenate,
And be a part of the spoils of the festive season,
Tshechus, losars, New Year and the festivals anon
A season of mirth and merry making, life’s very reason.
December 28, 2015