Winter

Original poem

O, winter, the zenith of the year.
You are the seasons’ last hour.
The small and frail mammals flee and hide,
The people retreat into their home.

The sun, we rarely see,
Maybe at the noon of we see thee,
Standing in the sky,
But it is not long before that light dies.

But it is also the sign of end,
The flowers withers and the grass is burrowed.
And, for us, it is the symbol of our end,
For when we shall sleep for the last time in our bed.

Underneath the flake-filled sky,
I shall breath my last sigh,
Soon shall I rest,
And may I after that be blest.