Four Seasons (3 of 4)


Autumn (Demeter and Persephone)

How could we measure,
The depth of a woman’s soul?
While it’s not as shallow a lake where,
Narcissus contemplated his face.
While all the lights are sunk,
In its bottomlessness grace.

Then how could we measure,
The depth of a woman’s soul?
Of a mother’s soul?
A mother without a daughter.

Her spirit crumbles as trees shed its leaves,
In the autumn.
Wasted jewels of a goddess.
Brown, red, yellow.
Ruby, gold, and diamond.
Lifeless and withered,
As the naked branch willingly witnessed,
When wind blows away,
Breaking its weakest bits, bit by bit by bit.

Patiently standing,
Accepting her fate,
Her daughter’s fate,
And their detached fates.
Fulfilling the conduct of gods,
Obedient, yet grievous.
They, who worshipped her, led ashtray,
Wondering whether she has gone and,
When, ever she’d return.

But, how could we measure,
The depth of a mother’s grief?
As she moaned, the trees froze,
The ground froze, the air froze,
To ice.

Carelessly, she flew away.
Wailing for her daughter Persephone,
Leaving the soil futilely cold,
Without a life to grow.


Dessy Farhany


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