Towards the end of March
When the white magnolia flowers
Open upon black barks
Like unblemished bridal dresses
Expectant, quivering, immaculate,
Feeling the primordial emotion of clouds
Like any other cherry tree,
They little know the world they inherit.
As you stand under the white lanterns
And sway with their enceinte desire
You are compelled to believe
In the purity of good intentions,
The joys of elemental fecundity,
Not in the least suspecting
The jealousy of the pink cherry tree,
Or the besotted mood of spring rain.
