After the bare trees,
the shackled ground,
spring breaks through the armor.
From the dark depths sprouts,
the faces of flowers open.
The leaves rustle, the tree shakes,
the birds on it
weave their first voices.
The woodpecker sets the rhythm,
the storks circle over the chimneys,
and the colors, shining
climb to the very clouds.
And the cemeteries bloom.
Hyacinths rise,
daffodils sway,
their heads are the suns
that bow in respect.
In the eye of the visitor to the
burial mound hope flickers.
Blossoming is the truth
that we do not suspect
in the cold days,
in the silent march
of our spiritual winter.