Springtime Blues
I have a case of the springtime blues,
of this crazy sentiment that I have for you.
It makes me prowl these gardens by night
with all its blossoms silvered by moonlight.
When I smell roses, my thoughts turn to your scent
of leather and smoke, cinnamon and mint.
When I see the tulips, my eyes trace your smile,
your features distinct, your face so divine.
When I listen to the crickets, I hear only your voice,
that melancholy song of pure, unfettered joy.
When I touch the blooms on the white and redbud trees,
I feel your luscious skin, so soft and promising.
When I taste the salt ocean or fresh water clear,
I only find your lips, so sweet and virgin pure.
This case that I have of the springtime blues—
it’s sad, as my heart still yearns for you.
I’ve a melody to sing of springtime sorrow
of the bright little babies, those children of tomorrow.
The little kid goats and the young little fawns,
they remind me of what we had before you were gone.
The eaglets in their nests and the fish in the sea,
they remind me of what we did, and what we could be.
The star born from nebula and planets from stars,
they remind me of what’s left of who we are.
When I see our child, I see love’s only grace,
for your smile is plastered over that innocent face.
I’ve a song to sing of springtime sorrow,
but our baby is sleeping, so I’ll wait ’til tomorrow.
I’ll sing you one last ballad not,
for you and I have both forgot
that love is full of piercing knives
that slide into the blood of our youthful lives.
We are just innocents lost in time,
lost to the pleasure of love sublime
while spring waxes to summer and day wanes to night,
while grass fades to brown
and the winds take their flight.
I’ll sing you a ballad when the roses are trodden,
when your cries and my tears make Earth’s pillow sodden;
but our love is desolate, so why should I care?
If love is this hopeless, why did we even dare?
Still I wait, still I wander, singing in the bright gardens
while I’ve watched your love turn sour and your soft heart harden.
It’s a test of endless patience before I scream and shout,
so instead of anger, here I sing
to a lover without.
Ysmael Campos 