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A mist rises from the river,
As it sets its spirit free.
And it joins the ghost of summer,
Lost in time's animosity.

The cold north wind is hinting
Of winter's frigid fare.
And darkness gains the upper hand
In the season of despair.

The sun rises in the southern sky
For its anemic daily fight
But too soon retreats again
From the nearly endless night.

The mountains I have yet to climb
Come clearer to my gaze,
No longer shrouded in the gray
Of summers humid haze.

Up above the tree line
The snowfields brilliant white
Eerie in a full moons glow
On a cold November night

The wind howls through the trees
And sings a song forlorn.
The forest alludes to winters death
Soon to be reborn.


The Season Of Despair
Photo: Gray Dawn, c 1981  all rights reserved
c. 2001  Zargo the fierce, all rights reserved