The season of spring, it arrives with anticipation,
bringing with it changes,
telling of a new beginning.
Flowers bloom anew, their potent scents
awakening the animals, beasts, people
to the enchanting song of the bird.
It calls out a melodious tune, a harmonious tune,
cries out to the grass, the trees, the sky,
or whispers about coming changes,
or just basks in the sun.
Its rays shine, gleaming arrows of light
pouring down like a waterfall of golden bliss.
With it comes warmth, and faith, and hope,
and reiterates, resounds all the emotions
that make us laugh and weep and wonder
of what composes life and all its facets.
Spring, printemps, frühling, primavera—
it all brings about a sweet taste,
a flavor forever desired in this fervent endlessness.
It surrounds, engulfs, embraces, entrances,
for what follows holds love,
but also angelic death.
But for the lonely girl,
this becoming spring is different,
and she does not feel these things.
To her, they personify false sentiments,
enigmatic as a whole,
embittering the world,
so tangible, yet so untouchable.
She cannot see the flowers,
cannot smell the inviting aura that resonates from them.
The bird's song is but another sound of despair,
another tune of the endless repetitions
that shatter into infinite pointed pieces that pierce the mind.
In darkness does she lay,
to where the sun cannot reach;
not a sliver of life does pass
into the abyss in which she cowers.
The warmth of the season
cannot stimulate her nerves;
numbness overpowers it.
For she cannot feel the cold,
the sharp, biting pain,
the raging fire that burns from the inside out.
The taste of spring passes her, leaves her,
does not bather to try,
to let her experience its pseudo-affectionate savor,
to quench the thirst that others have.
For her, spring shrieks of scarlet regret,
forcing unwanted changes upon her.
It tells her of the beginning of a world
full of misunderstandings, and mistreatings, and misleadings,
ever so plaguing, so persistent it is in its echoing cruelty.
A barrier forms around her,
protecting her, yet forgetting her,
and deceives bittersweetness into dwelling deep inside her.
She cultivates unfathomably bottomless memories,
hindering, recurring reminiscences
that twist and torment her,
inhumanly and precariously grounding her
to this grotesque world.
She encases the intoxications, yet rejects them,
wanting to encapsulate them,
so they cannot leave, cannot desert,
cannot abandon her in this endless blend
of desolation and misery.
For she has explored, probed the inside,
and found only pained words which she cannot confide,
words that stain her soul,
words that erode away at her very spirit,
enslaved words that she cannot let go of.
She lacks elation, and runs into the arms of oblivion,
then stumbles, falls, lays there,
letting the emotion of poisoned love
seep from her body,
letting the wounds be,
letting them bleed the sorrow
that takes refuge inside her.
Should she succumb
to the gentle and tragic disaster of life,
she would not notice,
and neither would anyone else.
Why is it that nobody cares?
because not even she does.
If a tree falls in the middle of a forest
and nobody hears it,
does it make a sound?
If she dies
and nobody takes notice,
is she really dead?
Maybe she is already dead.
Maybe she has a lost love,
or maybe she has lost herself.
But whatever it is, spring is just another season to her,
and she is just another person
in the season's breeze.