It is the shower of the spring
that rejuvenating
grows honeysuckle
from the sour of the rain

We tapped and
your tongue skipped
Played hopscotch
In an innocent dance

They clapped and
their ears skipped
Played hopscotch
In an unimpeachable dream

Synchronous joints
In unison they bellowed
Songs old
and saccharine

That fertile ground mellow
To scorch with our wet feet
They said:
“Join me my fellow!”

There’s mischief
‘Petit fille’
To be made
and they stormed the Bastille

Set ablaze
By the tangerine ombre sunset
as all they went ahead
Comuneros in Castille

But things fell apart
When the dying
sun had fled
inside a pickle bird

The frogs, the lions, the rattlesnakes
Evaporating puddles of a calming storm
We are still today
licking the scarred earth

And the dream
died alone to which
the Chinese later said
‘Twas the year of the rat