Electric Box Iphone Level

March sun

drunk on the first fervor
staggers a yellow butterfly.
Rest, sitting at the window, bent
sleepy, an old man.

In the green of spring, singing,
once he left home. How much dust of the streets

combed his hair!

And - look, the tree flowers and butterflies
- the yellow - aged just seem
,
still seem the same.

But the colors and scents are faint and tired,
light and the air cooler,

harsh breath, heavy.

Spring bruisce - light as bees -
its graceful songs. Ocilla
The sky blue and white, there
, golden, flying butterfly.

(Hermann Hesse)