Spring, the mischievous libertine
Spring, the mischievous libertine,
Has twitched from the chrysalis of dull realities,
Sneaking, slyly, among norms and tasteless thoughts,
A live torch in the old auditoriums where science quivers with emotion.
With the gesture of a diva, she shatters windows of routine,
Performing a flamboyant escape from the "Notre-Dame de Sion" stronghold,
Letting her laughter fill the voids, in a gala recital,
Exuberantly, she unfurls her golden curls over the musty chapters.
The sign of a procession calls me to follow her,
And I plunge into the pursuit, a furrow-browed initiate,
To cajole her in the park's gazebos or along the edges of sidewalks,
Where shadows of the past still dance in minuet steps.
But I shiver and melt in this effervescent chase,
On the path of memory, her silhouette hides,
Slipping through the city's fabric, uncaught, shredding the call...
Perhaps she has transformed, donned new masks,
And our steps no longer caress the same pavement in the same symphony,
Our orbits are now from different galaxies,
And we dance separately in this stellar comedy.
On the somber walkways of the Athenaeum, to the horseless carriage of the hippodrome,
Spring has met no writer to sketch her entrance,
No one to greet her with the gravitas of a serenade - "welcome back!",
And, with her coquettish ways, perhaps she reflected herself in the shop windows of the city,
Realizing that she was the goddess of a round dream from which she's just awakened,
And reality has blown upon her the cold mirror of a fleeting epoch.
Spring, the eternal young charlatan, with lips of myth,
Do you wonder, dreamy and vain as you are,
If you've sealed your fate within the pages of an unwritten history,
And dissipated into the air, like a fantasy struggling for a moment of eternity?
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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