Icy clouds fell
On top of a locust tree
On top of a locust tree
To dress it into a tyrant
Over the festive-vacated street.
I strolled to dislodge
Garland from every ornate door.
The floral zilch
Was such a sin
Was such a sin
As to make the New Year day
A faceless broken promise.
I rose to a call
From the bride of Spring
But only found she
Was in self-contained narratives,
In the grip
Of the coldness of the tyranny.
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