The beginning of spring somehow always makes me want to read poetry…


To hell with elevated art

And all long idle gloomy hours

When in the springtime in the yard

The chestnut-tree bursts into flowers.


It makes the fiery rain start pouring

And the south winds awake and blow.

It blossoms so that without warning

Our hearts like streams would overflow,


That books would fly away from tables,

That nights would stifle with their scent,

That we’d be threatened with such ailments

Which doctors still fail to prevent,


That birds would sing themselves to croaking,

That everything would burn and foam,

That mothers would at nights be weeping

Over their daughters not at home…


When chestnut-trees light silent candles

Those huge white blossoms with pink spots,

You come back home completely blinded

And with your pen make messy blots.

by Henrikas Radauskas

And if you can hear Antonio Vivaldi’s Spring in your head when looking at these pictures, then you know just how I feel.

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