You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.
in the middle of a rectangle
with two stars in red sparkling on the sides
in the kite
A strong cold wind from Siberia
all of a sudden,
cutting the string,
taking the image,
to unknown destination
The sudden urge to run and chase
Smiling through cracked lips,
The birds screamed above,and the girl screamed back
Harsh, cruel- of pain? Of loss?
in black gloves
sneaked up behind
closed-up like a noose around the neck
pressed the throat,tiny smooth like of gentle vine
So fragile, delicate, yet irrevocably straight
A tightened grip, no whimper nor sound
Roses bloomed on her cheeks,
Lovely, so lovely
She grew swollen,
on the land that was in stark need of spring.