Andrew Crisci | + Follow Poet |
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Another Gloomy Sky In November

The sunless evening is deprived
of its ardent and vivid colors,
the mischievous clouds
in their hastiness extend
their thin and tenebrous veil 
increasing my body's chill.

They intensify the dreary darkness
invading the lively landscapes under
a silent universe so distant and squalid,
less fascinating and mysteriously far  
to be contemplated for its blazing sunsets...
besides the frightful sensations that billow
and imitate every approaching shadow
as they detach themselves completely
from the contemptuous soul liberating
itself with painful groans of dissidence, 
refusing to alleviate their heartwrenching
cry; denying their sympathy with insolence.

I'm staring at another gloomy sky in November,
it's menacing and ready to be transformed
into a storm more violent than a tropical hurricane of summer; 
a loud thunder is heard followed by a sheet of lightning
that knocks down those vulnerable, aged trees falling
on the yellowed dry grass and on the bare bushes
that was the home of the cyclamen rendering them harmonious,
seldom sad; who remembers how they lulled by the gentlest wind
of this past spring in the well-tended gardens of the smallest town...                            
did someone smell the fragrant roses only parched by the hottest sun? 

The shady, undulating pines are being caressed
by the brisk breeze accelerating the marching evening
gloomier than a moonless night too enmeshed
in a sense of sadness that deepens the emotional feeling...
missing the absence of the blazing light that blinds the eyes
as darkness and fright cast shadows on the fields
of drooping sunflowers ready to declare their demise
more than the gelid air that freezes the steaming breath
and decrease the temperature of the cold body willing to enwreathe
itself with the instinct to warm up by a campfire consuming a balmy pine. 
















































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