May 11, 2017
Come, all you who are not satisfied as ruler in a lone, wallpapered room. Full of mute birds, and flowers that falsely bloom, and closets choked with dreams that long ago died! Come, let us sweep the old streets - like a bride: sweep out dead leaves with a relentless broom; prepare for Spring as if he were our groom for whose light footstep eagerly we bide. We’ll sweep out shadows, where the rats long fed; sweep out our shame - and in its place we’ll make a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed, fragrant with flowers aquiver for Spring. And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake; and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing
Aaron Kramer
