A Song for Spring

Ephemeral lives, and… immortal words. A poet once sang
before his murder: A barefooted blast of wind  sprints past
but treads on broken glass and screaming hops away –
Oh, April, with yearning buds beneath a bursting sky!*
The singer is gone with the past, but the song has taken root.
Each year, before the return of spring, ever since he noticed,
small, bloodied gusts of wind hop along the dusty roads
beyond our own fleeting time and space, our first and last.

Thomas Land

*Miklós Radnóti, Calendar (1941)
For a brief account of the life, work and death of Radnóti, see his Wikipedia entry: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mikl%C3%B3s_Radn%C3%B3ti

If you have any comments on this poem, Thomas Land would be pleased to hear from you.