Spring Is Not Coming

Spring blossoms in May

And turns its face deliberately

In moulting yellow streets-

Dropping blossoms on the sinners

And the semi saints who fondle crimes

In bars.

Spring born into winter- in its own haze of light

Disregarded in a street

Before we were born.

New Spring was sadly falling

Outside the window

Before I awoke.

Spring a handle of clumsy wish fulfilment- and its blossoms

only garbage. It is a dream Spring that brings scents,

to purify city streets.

Its cloak is large. It speaks in many voices.

It appears suddenly on a corner, where the lovers look up.

Disregarded by most.

Spring is not coming. Not like the rush of a train.

Spring always descends- It is a momentary thing.

Like Love, walking in the backstreets,

It hands tied behind its back-

I do not believe in that Spring,

and Love had drowned itself in the black water.

(But through my little dream the Spring has spoken:

"From inside. And I am as light as air.

Silver-clad and like a billow

I am passing over cities and times

Rushing over cities and valleys

And my hand washing the stain away.

My heart is flying like a death-bird

Speaking strains of new music

... I am soaring.")

And, from somewhere, as if a sorrowful spring has brought itself into being in mid-winter, a shower of rose-petals descend on us. They skitter among the sweetie-wrappers in the road. Scarlet debris, like rose-blossoms.