Summer Tale.

(I am done with all this Winter: nothing but muddy shortcuts, an unkind weather, and some really bad rhymes. The worst time to make a record. And maybe the best time to make a child, why not? Maybe the best time to solve these scratchy-cratchy-atchy-itchy-itchy riddles, and definitely the best time to open that bottle of wine you keep hidden behind the encyclopaedic dictionary. Maybe the worst time to come by, and maybe the best time to say hi. Shall we lay our swords on common ground? Besee the torchers twirling from the middle of the sea, and beseech this foreign light for a little help, just a few crumbles of understanding, just to keep you goin', you see?... Only warmth can keep you innocent: you may not fight fire with ice, but you may fight the ice with your fire. Depth is only a matter of Death. A Winter's Judgement, so to speak. An act of Closure. The Opening, night or day, night and day, or any roundabout afternoon. Foolish, one might say, if meaning the hour of the fools. But now again, I am done with all the Winters. They have Spring written all over them. )