Days are somewhat like little pieces of burning cloth. I don’t know how, but they are. The days burn up in themselves with the essence of spring lost in it, and at night, the ashes remain. Or something.
Days are like burning cloths.
In this part of the world, wherever it is, spring is an illusion. Spring is only a part of poems stolen from across kala pani, or poems that could give birth to fleeting springs. I never wrote one of them, so I wouldn’t know.
The last poem that gave birth to something has been written. I do not know when, or where, or in what tongue. But it has been written. And it has ended. The only poem to have ever been completed. Or the only poem to have not been. The world is a little foggy on Thursdays.
Whatever is written now, destroys things. All poems kill. That is their purpose. Or that is their desire, because what poetry has purpose? We are done giving birth to things. There are too many of them. Now things need to be erased. In gentle ways, that no one notices. After everyone has already fallen asleep.
So the last springs, in all our worlds, have come and gone. It has been written out of existence, by poets and poems alike. But it hasn’t been killed. Some things cannot be.
Soon there will be only one season left. I do not know which. I have no way of knowing. But I wish it is the fall. I do love the colour of fallen leaves,
Perhaps purposes and desires are not so different. But what do I know?