It is in December

That death comes

The Earth, blanketed in snow

And enclosed in its temporary coffin.

 

Here I am, awake

With chilled blood

Enjoying the wintry air

Reminding me of death's presence.

 

The nights become more comfortable

As the body is wrapped

In my room upon the bed of white

In a blanket.

 

Am I happy?

I suppose I am

In the cold room?

Because it is here in this month

 

I am happiest

In this temporary death.                                                                   In this temporary death.

It is here that

I enjoy sleeping the most.