Winter

The landscape is gray, a black worn by a barely perceptible Autumn and the vague memory of last Summer. It smells of nostalgia; tears are shed for the best shared moments while the present freezes, waiting for Spring. Every morning, the colors seem to undress before the stove, while the white, dragging clouds turn into rain. Loneliness persists, relentless, under a victimhood complex capable of frightening anyone who approaches. It is a time of laziness, languid looks, and slow gestures — excusable excuses, reproaches, and repentance. Winter smiles ironically behind a wool cloak, wearing white gloves and a top hat, a faithful servant of Spring, who seduces him with promises of flowers and warm sunsets. She, coquettish, prepares for the great event, enjoying the agony of the desire of all who crave her. Winter will serve his cold soul on a platter so that, when Spring arrives, everyone will receive her with love. Then he will travel to other latitudes, always hoping that one day Spring will leave Autumn and surrender to Summer. Eva T. Font