It seems that the
nature has taken a mortal turn.
The trees stand
bare, with new leaves awaiting conception,
The dry winter
barks fill their hearts with springs of new wood.
It takes a ring
every year to welcome the king of seasons.
The seasons might
regularly disagree, in turns of six
they might wreck
havoc over the lands that claim to bear them all.
Spring this
seventeen is standing on a hyperbole of wreaths.
No parabolic
similarity is deigned to be drawn, but just
the one intended.
And so far kept discreet, separate but nearby.
Seasons have made
this land fertile and the poets barren - barren with words.
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