A cloud thick becomes the breath you exhale
Rising before you like a
wall.
Such being your breath, what could you expect
From your friend -
distant or near?
O my gallant savior, O Nazarene old,
And of sullied garb!
It is so
viciously cold.
Warm be your accents,
And joyous be your heart.
Heed my
salute, and let me in.
It's me, your nightly guest, the wretched waif,
It's me the hard, ailing
cast away,
The world's nether cues, the jarring chord
From Rome I'm not, nor from Zanzibar, For
free am
I from all colors. Come open the door, so forlorn am I.
O master, O mate, it's your guest of months
and years,
Who trembles like a wave at your threshold?
Death doesn't take, nor hailstone batters me.
Whatever you may've heard is
the tale
Of the cold and chattering teeth.
I've come tonight my dues to repay,
By the jug of wine set down my charges
Wherefore do you say, that it's too late
That morning's come and
daybreak?
Do not be fooled - the heavens
Aflame isn't by the dawn.
O
mate it's but the sky's frost - bitten ear,
The rosy welt raised by the
winter's lash
Buried is the dead or dying chandelier
Of heaven's tight
confine
In death - besmeared sarcophagus of the dark.
O mate, go and kindle the
light of the wine
As night is as dark as the day.
Greeting would go unanswered;
Sullen is the air, doors are shut,
Heads
downcast, hands concealed
Breaths mist, hearts sick,
And skeletons with
crystal-bedecked. Are the trees?
Woeful is the earth, downcast the
sky,
The sun and the moon befogged - it's winter.