With spring come not the sour grapes,
With spring comes not the rain,
With spring the wine like sorrow tastes,
With spring there comes the pain.
Their chalices forget to fill
When your foot is set in room;
You look at us and then you feel
Our most impending doom.
You feel as much as any man
Would feel near the end,
Yet no man carries his cross
Given to him by friends.
I pray to close my eyes and weep
And move my sewn-shut mouth,
I pray to wake myself from sleep
And from my endless doubt,
I pray that you might again feel
Even chains or poisoned spears,
I pray that you might feel the lips
That on your lips whisper 'My dear,
Forgive that I have left behind
Upon your cheek a tear;
Forgive I had a too open mind,
But a heart that knows just fear.'
Forgive me for my pretenced brain,
Forgive my insolence, my strain
To move myself so I impress
A man whose fate is all too plain.
A blindman might see what I did not:
That what you knew you shared with lots,
And they acclaimed your dreadful words,
But they were blind, just like I was.
For spring is filled with sour grapes,
And spring is filled with rain,
But spring's wine like sorrow tastes,
And spring brings us the pain.
I pray to have mine eyes and see
Forgiveness on your face,
I pray to place against your lips
The kiss of my despair.