The warm rains kissed our skins;
The zealous trees called after the winds;
Colors of butterflies found nowhere;
Still, we breathed our Spring in the air.
Towards the grey hills far from the eye
The playful clouds sprinted upon the sky,
Giving our sore feet a rest,
Waiting to resume their journey for the quest.
The moist forests stood still like dead,
So did the baby leaves, and the flower beds.
For, the winds of fortune had gone,
Leaving souls of the green and ours to mourn.
Through the tall, dried blades of grass, we stare,
And still, we breathed our Spring in the air.