This May afternoon the Spring,
the late coming,

long-awaited Spring

is already old in the Sun's tired light,
in the whirling dust rising from the gravel

roads and fallow fields;
old even when no flowers yet

can be covered in that dust
that dances slowly, slowly

in the golden-hued light.

In the voice of yesteryear the day,
the landscape tell

of things ending,
not of rebirth.
Things pass away

and only dust remains,

inanimate matter toyed

with by wind and light.

03.05.2013