Silent Sakura

A dead silent Hanami. No happy voices in

the park. The pink blossoms drift down

to an earth empty of dancers. They spread their

beautiful carpet as always, but a

lonelier time this festive spring has

never known.

The old and the babies huddled in their homes.

Fear as terrible as liquid filled lungs. The soft light

of early April does not penetrate the dark drawn

curtains.

This crown of black iron, a devouring machine.

It hungers for their joy and splits open even the routine

like rotten maggots. Terrified white masks on

the subways and trains reflect back the confusion

and incompetence of the lost ruling elite.

The stone Buddhas in the temple weep themselves

into Nirvana as we stand hand and hand and jump rope with

another pandemic as looming Climate Change

and Nuclear Winter spin us round and round

rapidly on this merry-go-round of extinction.