Two bits of string, like a braid, intertwined,
Their ends converged, their pathways turned one—
One single state the future ever finds,
When the ice, the frost, the rain have long gone.
Now, the white string, with neither start nor end,
Swaying and dancing against Winter’s wet breath,
Is unstruck by its Season’s twist and bend.
But Spring approaches as it gains its health,
And a red second string must come with day.
As the cold comes near its yearly farewell,
It is this red Spring that must, until May,
Awaken the flowers with the season’s bells.
   Winter and Spring, now braided white and red,
   So that, in this M?r?i?or, they are wed.