Lilacs, the flowers of my childhood.
I inhale their fragrance like I'm dying for air
and they are my oxygen.
"A quail calls from its hooded cage. A municipal sweeper, coming along with his broom, propels an evil black flood along the gutter; and that tall, spare, bronze-faced man in a white uniform who rides along at a foot's pace, his keen blue eyes everywhere, is the English police-officer.
He stops, says something to a yellow-legged orderly at his heels, then passes on.
Therein after, there are tears in some balcony or liquor shop, since order must be preserved in the bazaar."
Lilies of the valley, lemon tea bread, cherry blossoms, and those lilacs...
In May, everything seems possible.
p.s. Spam has been showing up in the comments,
so I've turned on the word verification. Sorry--I hate it too.