The spring will be early, where Pomegranate in blossom, The ocean is splashing in your eyes, Don’t splash it out. My waitness is pleasant, But do you remember the nonsense – You’d screamed to sky, That may must be cursed, loud.
The spring will be lately, where Blocks of ice with damages Are trying to break their prison In physic forms. And you having wound with scarf, With great-sour looked, With coldfull lips you had mumbled “This fucking north!”
The spring will be honey, where The bird-cherry dustlight Will break with itself a smoke Of all cars and plants. And couple your words will slight Throw the splinfull dreaming: “And all of a sudden, do this beauty is last?”