My sins are scarlet-
they shall not be as white as snow.
I have bathed in them so long, my skin hath stained.

Unlike the cherry blossom,
My chest is full of seeds, which have thus not sprouted.

My mishaps are red as crimson- they shall be not be as pure and soft as wool.

I bear my shame with shackles and walk around aimlessly.
I fail to navigate through the smog- which I have created.