March (I)

The March sun rests on tufts of brown
Of the mimosa that none will claim,
And fades away on drunkards drowned,
Clinging to benches, lost in shame.

It sings its song on weekend’s eve,
O’er gleaming fruits in Martyrs’ Way,
Where my alien form doth weave,
Watched by those who sweat and sway.

Yet the wind that dances ‘round these parts,
Fears not the rhymes of scorn I chew,
As it combs through locks in fits and starts
Resettling strands that the gusts renew.

The sun here wanes, both shy and frail,
O’er branches that grasp at the empty air,
And on a tangerine, pale and stale,
That hangs indifferent to the ground’s despair.

The chatter of lives yet to be sown,
Upon a noble path of bricks,
And scents of those whose dreams have grown
To grasp the sense these songs affix.