The Longest Night
written by: Francisco Bravo Cabrera
PART ONE – Through the Longest Night
The sun has disappeared…
And the hills, ripped and torn,
appear as rusted iron streaked with blood
that runs down through burnt, black trunks,
dead trees, lifeless, leafless…
While a voice, old and cracked,
the sound of the icy wind, whispers her prayers.
The earth shudders and forgets to breathe.
Candles gutter as they stand…
Souls trapped in the flames
tremble in the darkened rooms
where hide, like shadows,
three drunken monks
mumbling prayers to an unknown god.
And time, with bony fingers,
caresses each hour of the night,
blessing them as they pass on.
Beneath the snow, ancient roots dream
of summers buried in the warm earth,
now frozen solid.
They toss and turn and hum a dirge of sadness,
for lonely bones, lying beside them,
that the earth has made her own.
Stars cannot brighten the ivory sky
that covers Earth this winter’s night.
Each spark of light is a wound never to heal,
and in the hush between two breaths,
something dark and vast resides.
I walk with care when nights grow deep,
and little stars misguide amusingly,
and fear grows strong and faith accusingly
reminds me I’ve lost hope.
But winter keeps what it desires,
hides the truth, puts out the fire,
And souls are vulnerable…
When the sun is hidden,
no light to guide,
means the joy on earth has died…
PART TWO – Litany for the Winter Ghosts
Why do I hear bells tolling?
No sacristan here lives to pull the ropes,
and the bells are old and cracked,
their sound is in my head I do suppose,
or do their iron tongues resound with prayers
that fly through the frozen nave and hollow hall
while the breath of saints now chills the air?
The waxy tears of thirty three candles,
had dripped upon the altar’s cracked stone,
while shards of glass ripped through an angel’s face,
bloodless and pale,
and flowers dead,
rotting in a golden vase.
From beneath the nave’s black floor,
adorned with dust,
in a crypt sealed with ancient incantations,
the choir, buried in a snowy storm,
hums its hymn and chants its psalms of adoration,
while the wind resounds against the iron door,
and howls demanding his libations.
The pine trees frame a ghostly moon,
that paints despair on roofs of slate.
Her beams are spears that pierce the womb
as night’s hours roll on death’s estate.
Winter,
black,
and satisfied to wrap her gown of ash and frost
on weary souls that dare the night,
retains the beauty of the lost,
and guides their way with icy hands.
- The Longest Night - December 4, 2025
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