Stutzmann sings”Ebarme Dich”.

I think into Spring.

Her wrists like rainbows

Rise and bend with rhythm

An aria stretching the skies

With sorrow.

That price of hope

Is the last supper of explanations,

A call to cloister to hide away,

To hide the seed

On warmish nights when frost could still fall.

So what was can die

And what will be,

Can be what is.

Does the song make me grieve,

At all

This loss of what was cold?

The winter of discontent?

No.

That is a mercy.

This is Spring.