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?
