The March winds' deep breath.

Scent of hay?

Not yet.

 

A boy of oblivion lays his cheek

against dusk's outgoing shield.

 

The youngest scions embrace

with the brilliant semblance.

 

A filly of the spring

clears her throat in the wind.

The eyes of dawn

runns over the newborn.

 

A battle for survival turns an amiable temper,

tempting the human being simper.

 

The merry sound on spring's belly

will later pick the big berry.

 

On a bale of hay,

the simplicity of life,

which rich with a history,

large its gallery.