The prompt is T.S. Eliot. The Waste Land. 1922.
1. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
A month, we say, is cruel
because of its weather, or the people
who die or were born in it.
But any period of time is an arbitrary
thing, a measuring convenience,
a man-made object. And weather
is temporary, ending as soon as it begins.
And birth is an opportunity for life,
a new chance, and hope. And death –
opportunity’s end, a shut door, an echo.