May is dying –
a slow and brilliant death,
adorned with strings of forward insipid cherries
and smelling like algae crucified on the seashore,
a death like a heavy minuet
to whose tempo cling,
seeds of dreams incongruent with reality.
May draws slowly its last breath in our arms,
crushing with masked despair its agony
against ignorant eyes
and against bodies too much in love
with the torrid embrace of the prematurely born summer
to care anymore about the painful end of some spring,
anyway pendulous.
So in a few days May will be gone,
this year’s spring will have ended its official cycle,
and I will try to not remember that two years ago,
when May died,
“we” died too.


© Liliana Negoi

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