I planted a cherry tree Four seasons back In a morose rain Pelting sharp upon nimble naked boughs And rows, of wild berries Running amuck in an unruly strain.
The tree is a full bloom now Of white satin flowers Swirling against a beaming blue
Tonight, as night keeps a vigil over my eyes I get under my squally Cherry Tree And suddenly I see it ailing Sick old moon peeps through its branches And I hear them crackle, not clear though Moaning unobtrusive, through a wicked grin. The moon lingers on long Shining painfully in the womb of night.
I feel the stiffening wood coagulate in my veins As blackness suffuses unbridled In the cold wilderness of mind.
April never was summer in Kashmir Look unto these dark skies Those pierce the ether yet once more Pelting mercilessly upon The ailing, armourless beings Whereby the cruel moon grins And my heart wilts with each withering flower Knocked down in the mud by The unsparing shower.
Tears trickle down the smeared petals And I collect them into my eyes Till the plethora can no longer be contained I let them fall Into the capacious ***** of earth
And in this cruel April rain My Cherry Tree shivers. Moans. Weeps. Over me.