Spring

By Érika Batista

 

                                               The voice of a nightingale

                                               Creeps within my veil

                                               Crumbles into my heart

                                               And so

                                               The spring comes smart

                                               Making of fruits and life

                                               Its goal.

                                               The knife

                                               I’ve been feeling against my soul

                                               Stop committing the foul

                                               Of killing me.

                                               You see:

                                               There’s no ill

                                               In an existence

                                               That can’t be healed

                                               By the patience

                                               Of waiting one more season

                                               Standing up a hill

                                               For a reason

                                               Why this life should be lived.