By Thao Nguyen

My Spring
is not filled with fragrant petals,
with newly budding saplings,
but with the salty candies that my eyes gift you.
Because mine is not one characterized by a renewal of happiness,
but by the understanding of your suffering.
You who treads alone,
care not to look to the side
where with my lantern I walk.
But it is of no matter,
because you are my Spring,
you are my lachrymose joy,
the aching of my heart,
the stretching of brittle soul.
My Spring
is not filled with laughter,
with the dancing butterflies,
but with a sweet loneliness.