What rot!!

Today, I have a lot of things to complain about so, I will just get on with it

Tennyson or one such fool of a chap ( don't remember who )wrote:

"
The year's at the Spring,
the day's at the morn,
morning's at seven,
the hill side's dew-pearled-

and continues with some such rot...

"The lark's on the wing, the snail's on the thorn.
God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world."

I mean, who asked his opinion?!
A blight of a poet comes out and tells us it's spring, whether you like it or not, when every evidence proves that is it otherwise. It is winter now, but no, the rot of a poet is adamant that a year is something which other season other than spring ought not to be.

Then he alludes to this rather funny idea that it is morning at seven. I was not aware that anything before 10 in the a.m could be refered to as morning. But no, the poet had to break the the fact, and twist the knife by revealing that at a certain hour when content creature should be sleeping on one's bed, the mornings are all said and done with. Which ofcourse, is total rot. I have not encountered a single morning before 10 o'clock in the a.m. and the notion that such a thing exist before that hour is hightly preposterous. Trust me, I am telling you from personal experience.

And then there is the thing about the eccentric view on larks and snails. One might pass off, that a lark can be delusional and could somehow be on the wings, but no matter how delusional a snail maybe, it would surely not impale itself on a thorn, of all places in the wide known universe, especially not so in the morning ( morning, if the poet deludes himself the hour to be ) . One would think a snail has some common sense and be going about minding its own business without sad incidents with thorns and what not, but clearly this blight of a poet seems to think otherwise. Sacrilege, I say, of fellow brethens of the living.

But the last straw is his blithe abandonment of the ways of religion, God, and the general well being of the world. How did this chap concurred that God is in His Heaven, one would never know, but to conclude all of this by saying that all of the things summed up that all of the world is well, that is a bit below the waist.

Let us suppose ( one of those supposition techniques, one so often find oneself using to prove or disprove a hypothesis ), that all the things this chap is saying is true, that it is spring ( even thought the cold winds of winter is blowing ) and that 7 O'clock can be remotely referred to as morning ( god forbid such thing ), and by some delusion on the part of the Lark, he/she is on his/her wings, and the snail feels particularly suicidal and wanted to impale itself on a thorn in this ungodly hour, for reasons unfathomable even to himself. Let us say all of these is somehow the case. What I do not get is, how in the dickens does this make all the world well? A daffy old blighter of a poet he must have been. Still no harm done as long as one do not take him seriously.

All is well, bah! if he only knows what is going at my neighbours and what happenned at the marketplace yesterday. Some bloke who has no clue of the world.

The West Wind blows

I felt it then, that the stillness, the ennui, is just the calmness before the storm. Then a soft breeze came, pleasing the tired trees, releasing the leaves from their stifled hold on life. For them, it was the beginning of another journey. It is for the living that falling leaves pitied for. For the West Wind comes.

I felt Him coming, and chilled the very bones of mine. Now He blows relentlessly against the windows, asking for entry, disguising once as an old lady, another time as a homeless orphan. I can not, and shall not, let Him touch me, for the west wind bring the most dangerous of all Evil - Change.

The cold West Wind blows, extending His icy fingers, touching one here and one there, changing the lives of unsuspecting victims. But change has never been easy, especially to those who do not like to be forced to change. But without change, there would be stagnation and decay.

The fallen leaves had it easy, for they knew, that to survive the cold winter, one must preserve what ought to be preserved, and prune whenever there is a necessity. For the only thing that does not change is change. And this the West Wind knows.

I can still hear Him rattling on the windows.