At the crossroads of time, where April flinches in buds parted
At the crossroads of time, where April flinches in buds parted,
Spring dwells in the temple, a priestess in a procession of timid lights.
A gentle breeze blows, carrying dreams stormy on the orbit of the stars,
Through the tumult of vegetation, it is reborn - the wild and untamed soul of the earth.
The murky water heads toward the ray, seeking the caress of the moon's compass,
And in the cosmic fabric, magically woven, her regal procession is a balm of rebirth,
An unseen pollen dance among rows of ferns whispering secrets,
Enticed by the song of caressed petals, she guides the day's eclat into disarray.
While her melancholy is the philosopher's stone that turns cold into caress,
Spring longs for the black-and-white template of winter,
Where ice and stone are clear demarcations, and feeling finds its well-defined shape,
And the discipline of the heart is pure crystal - exact and sublime as snowflakes.
But now - in fullness, the tumult embraces five spirits in a blossoming crown,
In a colorful stir, a variation that casts aside the royal ones to the wind.
Let the naive tangle in the breeze that sings symphonies in chaotic harmonies:
Spring withdraws ingeniously
And surrounds herself with fortifications of ritual and a rose's thorny fence,
Against the Unleashed Deluge of the Hooligan Season,
For no sign of revolt can scare,
With spells, with weapons, with mortal threats,
Not even in the name of the most fervent love.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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