no words

the lover in winter

The Lover in Winter

Leaves fall.
Green dies.
All heat drains away
and dies,
as the sun enters
the last sign.

Cold tortures soft things.
Winter plagues the birds,
and Philomel keens
with the rest:
the fire dims
from their sky.

Hollows are wet,
and meadows are seer.
The golden sun flees
our horizon.
After a day of snow, the night
freezes.

Everything shivers.
I alone am warm,
for deep in my loins
an ember burns.
This flame is a woman,
my longing for her.

A kiss feeds the fire,
a woman's soft touch.
The light of lights
is in her eyes,
nor has anything been -- ever --
more holy.


Anonymous, circa 1200
(my translation)