Jupiter casts his spell
over life to blossom,
sweetly imbued with beams
and mist from mystical crevices.
This calms us down,
his contortion towards the heavens,
causing the casual sleeve
to fall and bare a dying force,
arms pale with fear,
spotted in the spire light.
Staged in spring,
the incense smells
no better than the blood on the walls
or the dead of winter.
Our jesters gesture
to confuse the farmers,
their eyes tire from fields and skies,
for fine fair-fanfares feel
as if time were alive and wild,
kicking out of control.
In this new year, chronologists grin
despite the choice
that our Kingdom rejoice
while the cold destroys us all.
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