the fiveth season

What season it is?
I really don’t understand it.

It’s different, from what I was taught.

Tis not summer, as it was to be dry.
But my eyes are a river,
And my soul is in shivers.

Tis not winter, as it was to be celebrated.
But my chest has no hugs,
And my house has no gifts.

Tis not spring, as it was to be fresh.
But my skin is pale,
And the sun don't shine for me.

Tis also not autumn, as it was to be the harvest.
But my heart is barren,
And someone burnt my crops.

So what season it is?

With the heart so dull,
And the mind so fickle,
The eyes filled with gloom,
And the gut with no hunger.

Behold for what I've discovered,
Tis the fiveth season,
Tis the season of death,
So let’s rejoice, for the gods gifted us a season,

Another part of life I must say, Or another life itself.

For the season of death is long and silent,
And the melancholy continues…

Hope you liked it!

~ Anmol