Come not near me; be gone thou infernal cold!
I abhor thee with my weary bones, oh so old.
Go! Cavort with the young and the fighting fit,
Leave me be, in relative peace let myself sit.
Why o’ why, into my aged joints, must thou steal?
O’ winter you scare me, in your icy fingers I squeal.
Why must thou creep into my nights and chill me?
Thou make my joints pop and creak, can’t you see?
My wrinkled skin, shrivels under thy frigid touch
Spare me O’ wretched season, do I ask for much?
Shoo! Be gone! Find someone younger to torment.
When thou art gone, they are ones who lament!
By Sonal Singh