THIS UNNATURAL SPRING

Crystalline light of the late March noon

caresses the bare trees

lining the muddy road;

light that would bring forth buds

of life, palest green on boughs,

if this would but true Spring be.

But the caressing hands of sunlight

under the pale blue heaven

work in unveiled winter

stripped of white snows,

and the Spring lies in the distant future

in this unnatural time of dying.

25.03.2020