Shits of March

Last year when the winter left, its cold spurned
When the china roses were in the pink,
The writing, with blood, was plain on the wall
Something was wrong with us or with the time;

More than two months parted ways and we had
No collective dive into the abyss
Of bestiality and triviality.

But March’s deception is all but abrupt,
Like a windstorm in the middle of spring;
We, the brute of folly, wish for only
Green, green grasses and happy, sunny days.

And so did the procession come to pass,
In mid month, peace and war were in limbo
As if out of winter's hibernation:

The march of government killing
The parade of army killing
The cortège of rebel killing
And a 790-km long blockade.

Though this year, there is no expectation
Let March leave only the fragrance of spring
That gives us some hope for life in this stink.