By: Priya Chawla
Spring.
When the flowers bloom Living up to their full beauty, The grass is lush and green And perfumed with dew.
The sky is always unpredictable, Cloudy and sunny, Just the right combination Of the Yin and Yang.
Days are warm, Nights are cool, The winds blow lightly and freely With nothing to stop them.
If you closed your eyes, And were lost enough, You could hear the morning song And the sweet murmurs of lovers, The tires of a bicycle grazing Against the sand and pebbles, The pinwheel endlessly rotating.
Someone once said, You represent the season you were Born in.
Late of March, A girl was born, A crybaby Who did nothing but fail at Controlling her tears.
She was Spring.
She was supposed to signify
The calling of a new beginning
And evolution of nature.
But the girl, she, Never felt like Spring was Her season.
She wasn't supposed to be Spring.
Spring is beautiful, Spring is calming and charming, Spring is determined, Spring is chastity, Spring is everything she wasn't.
She felt rather like, Winter ice.
Cold, Like her hands.
Heavy, Like the weight in her chest.
Frozen, Like her lungs.
Breakable, Like her heart.
Avoided, Like her soul.
Snow, dirty snow, That was trying hard not to melt, Because they're wasn't anyone Worth melting for.
When winter came, She noticed people Trying to shovel away the snow As if it was an obstacle, As if it was unwanted, As if it was something Meant to discard.
She related with the ice and snow
More than
She related with flowers and birds.
When the whole world
Was telling her she was Spring,
She nodded with her body,
With her head,
But her brain was cold,
The temperature of her body was low.
She knew she was Winter, And nothing, No one, Would ever be able to change that.
She eventually lost her patience, She grew tired of being Spring, She was done with being What the others wanted her to be. For she was Winter.
So she snowed, And she hailed, And she stormed, And she rained.
She was doing what
She had always wanted to do,
Falling down herself,
When bringing spirits up
Was what she was supposed to do.
She was a failure,
She was told.
She didn't live up to be
Who she was supposed to become.
She was still,
The same, old crybaby,
The only difference was that the outside
Wasn't Spring.
She didn't mind being called the names, They hurt less, In fact, Felt better than being Called Spring.
Because Winter was who she was, And even if she was detested for it, She didn't care. At least, she was being herself.