Each December

I feel something subtle,

Like the shade of the past

telling me the same story.

December, and suddenly there is a suffocating stiffness,

Not coz of the cold or fog

But because of wretchedness.

Here people began to disappear,

Like a pattern of Bermuda,

Like a ritual or tradition.

It occurs every damned year,

Slowly, without any visible trace.

And every year I stand

before the same window.

Looking out

at the same empty street

Like I am waiting for something

to return.

But nothing returns

And I begin anew

to run the same vicious circle.

~Varinka