In Spring, love bursts in noisy bulerias,
a pale, downy blur that ripens to a bare skin,
petal lip alegria,
oh fermented eyes of the sugar drunk harvest
the adagio of a hammock
under swaying fruit
but true love resides in winter's silencio,
when we must lean in, whisper
and be still to hear the heart's yearnings,
glimpse the veins of hope that stream beneath
the glazed layers of seasons.
Yasmeen Najmi
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