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.
-
Author:
Lily of the valley (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 22nd, 2026 09:38
- Comment from author about the poem: When I was a little girl, I would go to the cemetery with my grandmother in the spring and there, on the graves, there were spring flowers blooming. For me, the cemetery was a place of flowers. When I grew up, I associated that scene with the spring message of life blooming where there is the saddest desolation.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- In collections: Chiaroscuro.
Offline)
Comments1
Spring always returns and with it rebirth and new life. Well written
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