More and more night pretends
it isn’t spring. What to
make of the daffodils then?
Hyacinth here and there, wind
and rain? So many birds.
Of course they won’t stay
long. None of this will.
Not the night, the cold,
the city full of swallows.
Not the bridges and rivers.
Not the sea, no god
born of the sea foam.
Not even mothers and sons
this would be unbearable without.