Hero of Midnight

November is a solemn sentence
on my tongue, the fabric of scarcity
an interior intonation of the hermitage
before the hibernation, and winter
where so many soul-thoughts drift

like empty shells of the past
and i know from previous experience
the freedom freeze as soon as
your dignity is taken away, like
trying to live in poverty or to exist

when lovers and friends have abandoned you
for whatever superficial reason
that move people to be disloyal
the stern voice of necessity has never
been louder for me, in my psyche

where economic conditions have become
how the bell tolls for me, and how
the labour inflicts me with dread
longer and later, as if, the lilacs
on the other side might never open

In late march or april when the fever
rejoices after the long-cold suffering
the rich earth purified by her rituals
might once again know the candor of spring
and the touch of sunlight, not to be seen
for these harsh weeks, the depths of solitude.