Dipol

With every turn, every winter losing it to spring,
The enthusiasm in every seed,
The question is heard in the intention of each raindrop,
Of ‘how big a chance a lonely hand from afar stands for growth’.

The roots have long grown into every rock and stone;
The winds are well trusted messengers of lost farewells;
And the waves are supposed to bring back distant memories

                          and to wash salt off the tears.

            
Relativity of time and space all over,
As the minute white root of the fragile seed reaches deeper,
And the shiny green leaves ever higher to the skies.

Watching over seeds nesting in the fertile earth,
The answer definitely lies in your eyes.
It is the look you bear in them,
Every time you remember those hands,
Now known to be parted from yours.