Winter's Gnome
The sun is wrought iron, the moon cement , Where Winter Gnomes do dwell— At the bottom of deeps , when lands lament , And cold drives thoughts towards hell. Like orphan born to live forlorn, Set adrift in humanity, As you turn to face each gloomy morn, Don’t wish you’d lived life as me. I look upon your aged fears, and with the Winter Gnome, Walk until we reach the years That each must tread alone. At eighty-one, when love you lack, The Winter Gnome pursues, Latches hard onto your back, And makes you sing the blues. Helplessly, as seasons changed, I watched the Winter Gnome Disturb the nights and chill the days In which you’re forced to roam. Death catches up with us, you see, When life abandons us too— The sun shining pointlessly, The moon a meaningless hue. I gave you gold when friendship sold At no price at all, my pretty, But this decline has loosed the hold Of life on you so cruelly. Nothing given and noth