A cloud of polished steel hangs over
The village, hollow-eyed people
Look up to the sky
Where is spring this year?
Like the man on the bridge they can
take no more.
For Paulo, the old carpenter it was
all too much, no wine could still his angst
of not seeing another spring and
his nightly screams echoed till dawn.
Dogs barked, his time was over
hanging in the shed between his tractor
and work-bench.
This shook the village out of stupor.
No more waiting for what may never come,
a pig was slaughtered, its blood an offering
to life itself.
The feast lasted for days.
