Sleepy December

Sleepy December, in the province of snowy.
Dark, boring, gray days.
The outgoing year, at the end, is inevitable:
lights in the windows of houses.

Days drag on, half-term, painfully.
Dark, dull, plunging into melancholy,
drives, as if, crazy, relatively,
looking at the pale, in the sky, moon.

The echoes of this depression are quiet,
moaning blow up the world outside the window.
Melancholy long, their,
echo, blithely, echo, then.