A bittersweet drink brings forth
a new bittersweet season.
Yet another leap has passed
in the long and round prison.
Shortest light on the year,
yet it is the brightest.
Burns in both hope and despair
with the sweet intermitent
mitigation of the clouds.
Split in halves,
chessboard floor manifests
far beyond the Sun:
Links flared,
Rechts cooled.
Isn’t it curious that
one half yearns
for what the other has,
but only when it’s so deep amiss?
Intertwined are the lights
in the sky,
but over-tangled shall be
the ones of the city;
The Illusion and purity of joy shall retreat,
leaving place to the disappointment of reality,
and the still silence of abandoned places.
There are things that shine
far more than others,
but that lie deep,
hidden behind dark shadows.
And so the brightness of perspective
can be turned around,
by the power of a twist,
just like the bitterness of the situation:
every season is a Myst.