* * *
Of this song I know nothing.
It comes like a vernal caprice
of the ages-old winter
that covers cold scores with rimes
distantly resembling the buds
of the future flames.
The lips kiss the melody,
as if they were gently kissed
by an impeccable lover,
like a promise of the touch
on the edge of explosion
and fatigue.
A dream of a dream come true.
A flower of the blossom to come.
The score of an air in the willows.
Sounds subside
ages before
the imaginary arrival
of the vernal suite.
1997
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