The new mystic may speak of spring,
but is an unfamiliar way.
For spring is nothing more
than a coalescence of fevered stardust.
Without the bygone mystic,
spring is a warm and inarticulate breeze.
With no one to define it,
spring is just the sudden urge of a beast.
Spring is truly a sultry whisper
that only the mystic is roused to hear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You are a real poet dear Barry.I have to study your poems.
I try. I still become very frustrated that I often cannot make the poem be as I would want it to be. This particular one is close to what I wanted to say.