Flowers throw themselves to a carpet on the ground,
flush with warming nights coming, is spring,
dying to summer's dull sky.
The lamps alight for merriment flourish,
fooling the birds, to mistake midnight for day.
They sing to caress the clatter with their clamor.
I wait for the morning, to petition the dawn,
for his safe return, from the war.
All night, every night, I ask, if it is time, it is time.