as I contemplate the many winters gone the creatures, places I have left behind my face betrays nothing but a shade of melancholy my heart cold, made ready for a war that cometh in this sunset hour of our occidental world today the house is filled with light this old house that father left for me without meaning to, with its gardens green of the life he loathed the skies above grey, pregnant with the promises of tears create apertures through which magnificent shafts of light pour from our Father divine tomorrow I shall leave this house to someone, likely never to return I shall cast not a glance back, but the book of my memories carry its moments its tragedies, its generosities --- the time streams having become too fractured to allow convergence like ten thousand islets scattered through an archipelago confounding land with lake, the outcomes can no longer be read and I'm tired of reading now shall come whatever comes and whether I endure or perish for the prospect of my eternal rest becomes more likely with the hour I accept [6-III-2023]