(BG)

 

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April


In winter snakes

Hibernate deep in the ground -

Coiled up

Like stone-still roots...

Roots of a tree

That has never shot up,

But has borne fruit.

 

When skies get

thin and transparent,

When the earth's body relaxes

In a bright lake of freedom,

They come out -

Cold, dark, slaves to their own poison.

Their common sleep untwists noiselessly

In single tracks -

Towards a bird's twitter beyond the cliff,

Towards the rustle of the shrubs,

Towards the road, thawing with laughter...

The first flowers may be late.

Snakes are never late.

When I see them I know for certain:

Spring is on its way.

 

1965

 


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