Margaryta Alfierova

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Spring Chants

Spring is the childhood of the world. We come to know it even in the cradle, when, half-asleep, we feel the first warmth of the sun, hear the drip of melting snow outside the window, and catch the scent of damp earth. It arrives unfailingly, like the turning of day and night, and each time awakens something slumbering deep within the heart. Crisp green stems, slender leaves almost translucent, pure air still holding traces of the passing cold, and the first, dazzlingly blue sky—this is spring,1 Spring is the childhood of the world. We come to know it even in the cradle, when, half-asleep, we feel the first warmth of the sun, hear the drip of melting snow outside the window, and catch the scent of damp earth. It arrives unfailingly, like the turning of day and night, and each time awakens something slumbering deep within the heart.

Crisp green stems, slender leaves almost translucent, pure air still holding traces of the passing cold, and the first, dazzlingly blue sky—this is spring, young, triumphant, untouched by weariness.

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