by m.p. macariola
they say im ruthless
with my acts, beliefs
and severity
I, in whose humble chest
only beats winter and sorrow,
I am hades,
the ensemble of pain,
the king of the dead,
and therefore the king of nothing.
and you demeter,
dont know how much
you torment me.
inside me is a harsh winter...
slowly thawing into spring
--it burns.
while I, the ruthlessly pitiful god
could only
watch as i willingly
fall prey to
humanity's most senseless emotion:
love
but what parts us
is the earth and sky,
and so in the underworld,
in the severity of a hundred winters...
i burn alone
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