To think there were twelve of us once,
each taking care of every month's seasons.
Some got gratitude for the fruits they dropped
to welcoming hands.
While others got fearful prayers
not to flood their homes during torrential rains,
or not to slip and break their mortals necks
on a snow-covered slippery slope.
But now, so far away,
separated from my sisters,
I do what I can to take care of seasons
in this heaving city, with millions of strangers
milling about these narrow streets.
Is it my fault if there's unseasonal flooding,
or a heatwave for weeks on end?
No one seems to realize I'm doing
the work of eleven others too.
I wonder where they've been incarcerated?
If their heads are still joined to their bodies?
Or if just soulless faulty copies
of their beauteous heads survive?
Disturbing rumours have reached me,
Octoberus has been placed
under the sweltering sun of a desert town;
while June has been locked up in
a freezing museum for the last few centuries.
Will we ever be repatriated to our
homeland, outside of our fragmented dreams?
-The End-
*Sisters in French
