Four Season Woman

One early morning I heard the sound of approaching spring. It was the sound of a bashful maiden crossing the stream barefooted, holding the skirt in her slender fingers. An azalea on the hillside is, with flushing cheeks, peeking through the gap between two rocks. I heard the swish of whip under the scorching sun, it was the summer wielding the whip in middle of air to drive a poor little white cloud away. It was the great struggle and cry of a maiden who was dragged by a big hand for forced marriage to an overly arrogant, and therefore, disgusting man, who lives in the village on the other side of the hill. A cicada in a perfect impersonal beatitude is meditating under the shade of a tree eyes closed on worldly matters. On one nightfall, I heard the sound of autumn passing through the plain, accompanying fallen leaves. It was the hollow resound, a sardonic self-scorn of a lonely woman who walks over the fallen leaves. It was the empty echo, a painful sigh of the broken hearted woman who looks back the horrible past from the forgotten path of perverted fate. Under the beam of moonlight a cricket in the dungeon as a confined prisoner, overwhelmed with grief, sadly chirps. I saw an approaching winter violently punishing a dead tree’s limbs and branches. It was the roar of fierce tempest, it was the grudge of a woman who stands in the middle of blizzard. I saw winter walks on the stars above frozen sky in white garments. It was the lamentation of the woman who roams in the other side of netherworld. It was the horrible memories of absurd past the woman can only recollect. The tiny seeds in the soil, to overcome the bitter cold, are keep reciting the last line of last stanza from Shelley’s To The West-Wind s— “O wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?” with tightly closed shivering lips.