Cold Is a Country

Dear son,

 

I got a report that when yesterday’s downpour

was seconded by the wind that made you shiver,

you ran indoors and wore thick coats,

a head-warmer that swallowed your ears

and gloves that made you look like a leper.

You smoked cigarettes and sipped spirits,

claiming that cold had armed itself with swords

and you were not ready to die.

Perhaps, you would have fought if you

were a knight with the mastery of swords.

 

As you await your visa to join me here,

I write to let you know that planet earth

births countries in minutes and seconds.

They require no leaders and battle-ready armies;

nor do they require flags and political parties

to paint lies like portraits.

They exist on their own and rule everyone they meet.

Unfortunately, taxes are much more than coats,

head-warmers, spirits and cigarettes;

there are more heaters used for the service of such countries.

 

Son,

As you await your visa,

I also await your arrival to your dreaded phenomenon.

Here in my apartment, cold is a country.