This year again there is spring

This year again there is spring, spring incredibly familiar, so why does poetry suffocate on its own breath. The tree under my window commits plagiarism for the twentieth year in a row, green leaves upon green leaves. This year's cherry blossoms are not different from those when the cherry tree began, the same perfume permeates the air. And - although the old declare it tiresome - my sister kisses under trees as I did; she kisses passionately, forever plagiarizing her first kiss. I could as well recall grasses, all the grasses which have germinated from seed, faithfully and without compromise, like those of several months ago. Life giving birth does not fear plagiarism, just as death - stubborn in its repetition - always stupefies. Why then censure love poems, why object to their lack of shame and primitive disorderly groan of rapture repeated perpetually for centuries oblivious of readership.