To rail in spring

When there is war in spring and I (my voice exhausted and my brain failing to find prose to cry against the anger, waste and pain) must turn to something to survive (and there is not, as yet, one bloom upon the lilac tree, no live sweet-singing bird relieves the gloom) then poems stopped upon my lips begin to stir themselves and start to move in me like wind that whips the clouds and tears the sky apart, as though to rail in quatrains could conclude a peace, and do some good.

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