It seemed that sounds as virulent as Spring
Surrounded me, when I least suspecting
Was being readied as burnt offering.
La danza del Fuego around nothing:

The heat of air, the sting of death,
The crass
Days of Spring.

Whatever comes to the day,
Whatever sets at night is cold as brass.
Entangled with tides of Spring,
All is grey.

As morning comes, the Spring with sunset goes.
But mourning becomes us all regardless.
We burn for sacraments unsubscribed.
Blows
The wind and with it never comes any bliss.

The Spring is dead alas.
Long live the Spring.
We burn all year, and scorch in flames—tiring.

Shuweikh,
March, 2023.