In spring the kampoks will bloom

Petals opening to the warming sun

Thick drops of rain will wash them

And beauty will abound them

Until wind rustles them from their hold

Down they will fall to a busy sidewalk

Trampled under shuffling feet

In their brief, glorious display

Their color will stand above a people weeping

For their dreams blossomed then fell

Trampled under thundering boots

Though the kampok’s blooms will return

When again winter gives way to spring

Will the sacred, beautiful future be dreamt again?

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