Spring is moving closer.


The harsh daylight adorns

the walls around weak shadows

only for my sake


The light sits there, slapped on and so sure, durable, but seems artificial like an indirect compulsion. Outside, dim matter dances too captivatingly and arranged to give its desired influence without sweeping anything aside and giving explanations. No one hears or understands you.



In the return,

in the rubble,

we will recall
the cultivable in the clarity of the mind

and live within for the dawning life of Spring.