The pink trumpet trees mock your winter
Of shining pate and singing lungs
The eyes mist over at the rare blossoms
Heralding spring in soft tones over
The discordant notes of the traffic
The eyes that have seen will carry
The flowers home and place them
In vases adorned by coloured paper
Neither fragrant nor wilting nor seasonal
But offering some quiet to the city-stressed
The neighbourhood konrai is in bloom too
Blazing with its still yellow flame next to
The palash yet to light its orange fires
The grandfather points out the new season
To the little one tracking the cat with lithe feet
Time seems to be in a hurry, your time
To light your pyre.
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