Carrier2

Punctual and precise, perched high, you sing the praise of slow and viscous days, of sluggish, sweaty spring. Miniature mummies, monsters of May from dreamless slumber miraculously revived; how do you find your muse in these molasses posing as hours of the day? While I, born of late winter, suffer and suffocate in this seasonal syrup even in the shade, my head split in two by heatstroke; my words melting in my chest, a bitter sort of butter. Yet mockingly, defiant, I spread it still upon this blank white bread. May hungry outer eyes devour it, and share a bit of my despair. As for you, little revenants of the earth, sing, sing until the coming of the rains! Who but you brings joy in this sweltering Hell?