Every spring is a delirious dream,
a fever of singing birds beaking
at the ribcage of the shadow of death.
Every spring, the tales of old fall asleep
to the chiming of wishes
which nature is to defy
the will to apotheosis.
But every spring takes the edge
off the wine of misery.
At one point, no reflex will escape
the awareness and dance of the puppeteer –
being there but forethought
and synergy with the lower machinery.
Thus, every spring is but a glass of alchemy.
Be drunk! Be mad! – Never still.
For the road is long in the quest for eternity.