On Spring

How uneventful were sunless days. What a joy of today for being otherwise, a promise of blooming flowers delivered by a humble appearance of green buds on thirsty soils. Awaken from a deep sleep, the entire city animated as the spell met its end and Winter tore its ornaments down. Workers unapologetically hurried home, wearing a glowing smile that misguidedly christened them all as loving. Enlivening force was cascading from above, the day was tailored to be a gift. No death, no sorrow, or at least we thought so. No addition to what there is, no subtraction from what was there. At a glance, sunbeam gently stroked people’s hair, transforming their head into waves of manifold emotions. The blondes fit the scene gorgeously but it took the brunettes to reflect gold on the spectator’s eyes. Shadows no longer stuttered, turned into benevolent boldness: lines through inner walls, trees on buildings, and of a man walking with a stick. For a split second or three, we hesitated in doing whatever we were doing. Then out of a whimsical urge, we tried to make sense of the magic. Frühling, we said, welcome.

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