I step from whirring future gears
To shadowed halls of moss and mire,
Where candles flicker, knowledge fears,
And hope is but a guttering fire.
Cobblestones echo underfoot,
A market square of mud and cries—
Peasants barter, beggars brood,
Monks guard secrets, wary-eyed.
The plague carts rattle down the lane,
A priest’s Latin lost on cold stone,
Superstition thick as rain—
Witch or wise, you die alone.
But look—within the abbey’s walls,
A child’s voice stirs the silent night,
Tracing stars on parchment, small,
Dreaming truths beyond the fright.
If I could change one thread of fate,
Would I bring a book, a spark,
A word of science to translate
The world from brittle dark?
But history’s woven, coarse and tight—
A single tug might fray the seams.
So gently, I leave one lantern light,
And trust the dawn to find their dreams.
Icy diamonds rattle down upon the
frigid, Discolored ground.
In its sleep, beneath a blanket of whites;
tubers hibernate, these winter nights.
Blanket of white, though dripping in sunlight,
outlasts greenery of delight.
Naked trees will one day see;
clothes of green soon will be.
Winter’s kiss, for some, brings bliss;
for others, a challenge; a hit and miss.
For now, the landscapes a canvas, white;
ready for paint, in the old north light.
For new beginnings, all life sees;
in the greens of newborn leaves.
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