Underneath the Winter Moon
From my tears, the river, that flows through the snowcapped forest, was created. I have yet to turn into the ground itself if fate allows me to. I do not wish to be part of nature, but like the cruel Mother she is, I have no choice. I will bear witness to what is birthed, and what is perished, on the earth that’s become my nest of suffering.
I was born from ice and snow, a stranger to warmth and color. During the day, the horizon I dwell in doesn’t exist. A blank landscape that longs for other signs of life other than my own. But when nighttime finally arrives, my one campion, the Winter Moon, gives light to my heart. It illuminates the darkest corners of my eternal life in which the sun was never able to reach.
Then the fated night arrived. More than a lesson, rather than a blessing. Life is fleeting from where my hands don’t reach; I was no stranger to this morbid reality. I always believed that within my realm everything will live on forever just as I am. I never expected for death to be part of my own veins.
A stranger stumbled upon my territory. A night like any other; falling snow, dark skies, and a bright moon. Through the crunching of dried branches and the heavy white blanket, he emerges into the moonlight. A human man, lost and disoriented, desperately looking for shelter from the cold.
“You’re here,” he said breathlessly, as if he was searching for me.
“I am always here. I cannot leave this place.”
He smiled. Bright and naïve, for he was sort of a fool for coming to me at night. Even the forest’s creatures go into hiding. Yet here he was, approaching me with such delight, such admiration, as if the cold was of no concern. His cheeks tinged pink, and his body trembled, but all he could talk about was how happy he was to find me.
“You’re as beautiful as the stories say. It’s like a dream come true.”
Although flattery didn’t work on me, his foolish words are seared in my memory. When the wind blows I can still hear his loving whispers. The stars above my head shine no brighter than his loving gaze. At night I look for his face in the shadows of the forest, waiting for him to find me once more.
Mother Nature is cruel, I said it before. Just as I was not made for warmth, he was not made for the cold. In my nest the snow gathered, piling on top of our intermingled bodies. He turned as pale as our surroundings.
My hands could not warm him. And he died softly underneath the moon.
The river, born from my tears, carried him to his native lands. I was left behind, weeping every night, losing a piece of my life while still feeling the burden of immortality.
