spring time

swallow dear

are you aware of the year we spent down here?

albeit in the trees the seasons campaigned to spring

and other songbirds already inlaid the slumbered bushes

where plenty of gnats serve to be your good food,

there is still the surprise at seeing your flights

coming to say that the cold is finally shed

even if the warmth long had been felt

unbecoming.

the squares in the towns that once stood in awe

at your pirouettes will be emptier than you

might ever remember; the stares that were

fastened onto your shoulder now nest in the fear

that the sun does not ripen the trust for the open

but jealously seals the windows through where

the winter has glossed the hearts

in the faith that there cannot be any more

excesses.

but you minstrel of the sands of Africa,

eternal wind that mocks the tower's flag-

you need none of our leaves to follow

the rules that were before the hourglass,

that languish the earth to sing of her ornaments

when they are met by the traveler that knows

their worth through the nostalgia they cast.

thus while you claim your prominent seat

through the monuments shades

with the delicate glides over the porphyry floor

sprouting the streets by the speed of your tweets

till the plumes lulled in pillowed cells burst you uphill

high on the altitudes that steeple the heavens

where your spear reinstates the thunder's root

down through the clouds garlanded to wed

the clattering scutes in echoing smiles,

have mercy of us that received you skeptic

that we could hear next year your reproach

and laugh at it together.