(cantos point ten)

Spring is sleeping, dreaming of birdsongs.

Winter, in her torn garb, flutters at the wind,
her face like fire, her mouth full of teeth,
yet she is fading, disappearing into the streets,
falling from the sky like forgotten fairy dust,
being swept from the trees like a torn bag.

Spring is awake, lingering on the mouth of a nearby cloud.

Winter cries out, her brazen voice like a dying hawk.
She coalesces and forms, reforms and turns,
a wave of anguish tearing at the seams of the mountains.
Her dying gaze looks hopelessly as she comes on the wind,
her bright face filled with flowers and fragrance,
her light breaking through the clouds.