Spring, the month allegedly the cruelest,
makes some anticipate the joys of summer,
but hardly ever will impress the coolest
for whom the summer season is a bummer.
In autumn expectations are much lower
for everyone’s prepared for winter’s icy blasts
which swallow Indian summers like a boa
while freezing hopeful spring enthusiasts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice one. Thanks for sharing, looking forward to your next work.