Proserpina begins her climb today,
Wiping the last of the night cream away,
Rising from bed, still heavy, still slow,
Checking the date—hm, when must she go?
No coffee today, no sweet croissant—
Life above trembles on scales at dawn.
On the other side: cold, war, and cries,
Plague, and hatred… Alone she climbs.
Stone steps are countless, old, and curved.
Knees are in pain—but no doctor will cure.
Will the seeds she brings take roots and grow,
Beneath white phosphorus stars aglow?
Will the seeds she brings break through the ground,
Torn and scattered by missiles all around?
What if she comes, but the sky stays the same?
What if the rose never blooms again?
Her tattered green robe rustles in the night,
So far to go—she must reach the surface light…
2025.03.27