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.