by Kevin Villanueva Cleofas
I dream of Spring that never comes,
And shouts the words I need to hear.
Sing to me birdsong or a willful rhyme,
A tune the mind may grasp for life.
It’s true I’m mighty fine, I’m all too sure,
Deep crimson must this day endure.
I long for Spring that never comes,
That brings the fragrant winds of March.
The kind that lingers in the summer air
And mixes with the evening sweat.
It gladly burns with each and every breath,
Sweet scent of life-returning now!
I wait for Spring that never comes,
And rush awake in colder sweat.
As grim did days had passed, perhaps this time
The clouds would part and rouse the gods.
Once more, I yearn to see the children play,
But not with urns and candles grey.
I cry for Spring that never will,
For nothing can be ever fair,
Where children cry in screens and streams the torts
The groanings of our country still
To ears too old, too deaf to hear the songs
Sung by their pluripotent greed.