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Seasonal Affective Disorders






In the new year we have in April
with the beginning of the new season
And in the time we follow from January,
there is something so misleading,
as annoying as the Indian stare in various places.
On an apathetic cosmic ride,
the airs whisper, never say never.


In the spring come my feelings
in the verdure as fresh as the dead
in a hot spot, shot just minutes ago
when living is only not dying
Seek in the wake of bleak days ahead
yet the cycle and the same dead keep coming back.
In the season of growing, should life be growing.
Unfortunately, not.

In the summer half the battle is lost
One thousand roads lead to the destination
But in the racket of clarion calls, clattrering noises
and other thousand wrong ways,
have I lost my sanity unconsciously,
and have I lost my only mind,
And the heat is too much
All that a life needs is only a fine retouch.

In the monsoon the sweat still sudates
and the circus of life too hideous:
raining blood and all the shades of red reign
Crimson skies and scarlet roads and maroon rivers,
And storms of bullets and thunders of bombs
And wailing and howling as the rain soaks all dry red
I long to be on the outside,
And swim away from flowing with the tide.

In the winter lies a warm spring ahead,
while I'm lost in a pursuit of freedom
And in cold sleep I foresee the cycles;
The same old cycle of nothingness.
Yes, in the winter lies a warm spring ahead
But I don't want to live on,
and feel fresh like the fresh dead body;
Please take me out of this cycle.




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