COLD LANDS AND NIETZSCHE
Somewhere between December and February
Ice enters your heart in those cold lands
And never goes away again. Iron in the soul.
You feel the sinking of despair deep in the gut
That which the Globe reports on its crime page
And hungry homeless men muttering on pavements
Graffiti on the walls of subway stations
And funeral parlours not far from cemeteries.
The chill that will not let a grown plump woman
Forgive her mother just recently dead
After a ritual mourning when the will
Is read out and siblings are torn apart:
You know it in your bones. Evil is in you.
Who would want to live there and who to die
Who could wait for the ephemeral Spring?
Who should move to the South yet not escape it?
The child psychiatrist divorcing at eighty
The dog abandoned and the one home sold.
So stark the truth you long for sunny tropics
Lush with emotion and flora and fauna
Where people weep buckets in movie halls.
It’s quite enough to turn you a believer.
So much for Nietzsche.