No Love Lost
The hate we had in summer has fairly turned to frost. Long flowed the torrent, long sprung that well, that it would spray you with my indignation. Now that flow becomes a floe, that gush becomes a glacier, breaking the pinched plumbing of the heart.
The hate we had in summer is fiercely quiet now: Be still my heaving stomach, be silent retching guts. The heaviness of hatred is lifted from my diaphragm, no longer does it grind against my innards, pushing, with metallic squeal, upon the liver and intestines, dragging on those organs like a noisy, rusted wheel. The wheel has come to rest; the rest, to heel. And, here, in the heart, there’s but a murmur.
The hate we had in summer is lost to winter’s lethargy. It is winter now, here we have sangfroid.
Now is the winter for this malcontent; show him kindness, give him warmth.
The hate we had in summer is fiercely quiet now: Be still my heaving stomach, be silent retching guts. The heaviness of hatred is lifted from my diaphragm, no longer does it grind against my innards, pushing, with metallic squeal, upon the liver and intestines, dragging on those organs like a noisy, rusted wheel. The wheel has come to rest; the rest, to heel. And, here, in the heart, there’s but a murmur.
The hate we had in summer is lost to winter’s lethargy. It is winter now, here we have sangfroid.
Now is the winter for this malcontent; show him kindness, give him warmth.