# Seasons Spring arrives—a whispered promise through the green-dark of winter's end. The earth stretches, yawns awake. Birds return with their old songs, slightly altered, as if they'd forgotten the exact notes and had to improvise. We are foolish enough to believe in new beginnings then. Summer burns without apology. The sky is relentless, cloudless, merciless. We seek the shade of trees, the dark cool of shuttered rooms. Time moves like honey. Nothing hurries. Nothing matters except the weight of heat on skin, the salt of our own sweat. Autumn comes with fire in its pockets— reds and golds that seem obscene, a last gasp of beauty before the long forgetting. Leaves fall like letters we'll never read, like words we meant to say but didn't. The air turns sharp. We feel it: the world preparing for its sleep, and us, complicit, preparing too. Winter settles in like grief. The trees stand naked, patient, skeletal. Snow hides everything—the broken things, the promises we couldn't keep. It's quiet here. Almost peaceful. We learn to live in silence, to find warmth in the smallest light, and wait—always waiting— for spring to come again and tell its old lies once more.

I was forever resurrected with
the drunken spring, forgetting my dread,
and on the day that stretched before me, endured as if on a bird's wing,
I buried hell and darkness deep within...

She came, gentle and luminous,
whispered to me in the evening,
under a pale moon, that she had given me all I still ache for,
and my presence would remain there until death...

Then I forgot even myself,
and barefoot, danced among the golden drops of wine,
so who would dare crush my flesh
when the soul was nothing but a drop of rain?!

And in the summer,
a thousand suns seized me,
and crowned with the flower-light of June,
I scattered the mists—those uninvited guests and purples,
sending them toward the burning days...

In my palms, into fires, they turned,
and all my sorrows—
at sunset, dust,
I suddenly felt, in a dog's sleep,
that my only and perceptible sin was not lodged in the heart,
and there was no use,
because I could not stop fate and I cried out then,
"Life was written by another hand, but I will build it!"

She trembled fiercely,
and wildly on the ground and somewhere below,
amid dark depths, amid fire and butterflies,
in an enchanting gaze, with a trail of
dead and rosy leaves, she, my autumn—
rainy and young, blazing in red silvery dusk,
and seemed to draw from the lines—
the traces of that purified weeping...

And the sun warmed me through,
veiled in beads of sweat, I stretched out
longing and eager hands,
stepped into life toward near glory,
and never became a child again...

I woke as if for a fresh beginning,
and steeled by the cunning and evil
of winter—that daring one—
spirit and body...at last ready to be a man!

But still I resurrect with
the drunken spring and summer.
I wait—to grow good, for
autumn love others beg of me,
and with the pulse of winter,
arrive many joyful creations!