I met you, winter, at the end of all seasons.
I learned your truthful taste and knew, that all my cold seasons were but sweet colorful patches of Anemone flowers and Cyclamens hiding beneath the mountain rocks.
You were real, and I can call you mine, having walked the stormy days and frozen nights of your realm.
I knew other suns of other winters, but yours, though hanging low in southern skies, made my skin ache and crave for more.
I met you, winter, the end of all seasons.
I saw your cautious deers as they wandered the evening garden.
I saw the footsteps of your fox, carved in snow.
I saw your bright hungry birds.
I know you, winter.
Your follower is approaching.