Hearsay is that it’s time
for a celebration of blossoms,
(some call it spring);
But it seems that today,
the sight of this
causes love anguish
to behold.
A so-called celebration, a
Purely nominal, titular spring, for
What court of spring-seasons
can proceed lacking the participation
of such an essential guest?
Yes, when love’s in distress:
Even fragrance is sullen,
she shies away from the flowers
in the garden.
Some grief is hidden in the portiere,
an unlikely
(but temporarily befitting)
alias for atmosphere;
whose expansive vacuum has been
(oddly) thinned by this
lovelorn circumstance.
Everything seems pastel,
The views are subdued,
The very threads of time are torpid, drowsy.
Remaining suspended in our hearts
is lost chatter,
as if to marinate us, tenderize us
in anticipation
of love’s return to spring.
How might I articulate my grouse?
I am presently consumed
by thoughts of how to settle
whether or not I might claim him intimate.
For although we traverse together,
the distances are between us...
Akin the opposite banks of a single river,
we do not meet:
We are as aloof from one another as our destination.
We are near each other,
and yet, we are not close—
I cannot consent to this pain!
This interval amidst us
is a (perplexing) glass wall.
Everything is tepid,
When love is tormented.
This fake, namesake
of spring
aggrieves me.
The tune I’d heard
is the one my heart had chosen.
But what strange destiny has time
chosen to play me instead?
I cannot imagine that he is happy
while I sit here, desolate.
Indeed, in our rendezvous
it is as if we are commingled in loneliness.
Isolated together,
Although we encounter the other,
we never meet.
Ah!
Nothing is impossible in
this alien springtime where
the flowers blossom without ever blooming.
Our eyes see the spring,
But our hearts know it is autumn.
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