It’s spring
So much that
It's almost like a little summer
The birds are chirping
I don't remember flirting
Last time feels so long
Ago
So teach me birds
Wake me up

No drugs
Just love!

Springtime and my soul blooms like a snowdrop after a harsh winter.
I feel that all the bad things slowly go away and I come to life.
I can finally walk through my native small town and hear its whispers,
So I think lifetime is not very bad and now I can try to give a drive.

Baby, let's on the run with me,
Take my warm and tender hand,
Have fun as hard as you can be,
I won't give you up 'cause I'm your man.

If you suddenly start to fall, just know that I'll pick you up like an iron wall.
Don't worry about problems, just call them tasks and keep them to any autumns.
Baby, don't worry about the things will happen, just let the river go to its own way for the rules of the planet.
And just sing Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

Life,
Fragile,
Like the surface of a liquid.
We leave our bodies,
Becoming the same body of water,
Carried away in that great river,
Constant and flowing.
Is our ending so final?
Can we too evaporate into the clouds,
Becoming the springtime rain,
Fragile and full of life once more?

If today

I never wrote

I would have disappointed

this spring

I can't remember

last year

or even springs before it

I can't remember how many split

seconds surrounded me tenderly

like water

I hide in the house

can't see the crimson of a certain flower

can't hear the sound

of a delicate bud jumping for joy

I can only

hold a cup of aged green tea

fantasy or speculation

glistening verdant details

of all things

when I look back at so many springs

many years later

I remember this

every breath I breathed

I had waited.

Spring feels like dying this time.
I usually feel like withering,
but because of the allergies.
People used to be able to laugh
at my sneezes; now they feel like
quick triggers. How do I know which
it is? My phone says it’s a Friday.
The calendar says it’s April.
I know it’s both, but it feels like neither

because spring feels like dying this time.
When I go outside I can relax for a little
in the warmth, but I know it’s a false feeling—
that nature is living. No one I know is really
living, but the mosquitos don’t care.
I go from bed to table to bed again,
wearing the same clothes; it feels maybe
like being mummified. I know I’m in a
tomb, with the same walls haunting me,

and spring feels like dying this time.
Not even the loose sunlight pooling
in from the window can draw me out
from my blanket-cave where the screen
light burns fleeting images into my retinas.
I let myself lie there until the hours fade,
like everything’s just one big dream,
another reality where my body is nothing
but goo. It helps me to forget the truth,

that spring feels like dying this time.