Prima Vera (Spring)
The westerly has ceased it doesn't get
dark before seven, time for evening walks,
and let stillness read my thoughts.
Under a carob tree three stones one on
top of the other and old man sat here,
he saw everything till he lost his shadow.
No one sit on his throne, like sitting on
a tombstone, the stone-chair belongs to
him, his everlasting memorial.
Time to walk home, feel hungry,
the mundane always takes precedence.
Spring is here and life is beautiful.
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