Pink cherry blossoms, 
born of the whiteness 
of snow and the redness 
of blood, bloom in April.
An embroidery frame of 
silk with red cascades 
of flowers, that on trees 
stay pink, forms a gateway 
to a garden I had known 
long ago, a garden born
from centuries of sweat 
of incarnadined hands 
scabbed by fantasies,
sculpted to perfection. 
Jade plants stand cold, 
watching koi ponds with 
water lilies and hyacinths, 
redolent, sheltered from 
sorrows by weeping willows. 
Who will wipe the lament of
the gnarled gardener bent, 
burdened with timeless lush
scapes of bowed obedience
to languid, luxurious lives? 
Red was the colour that 
stormed, stomped the rich. 
Did peace ride vermilion? 
The Buddha no longer sings. 
Mitali Chakravarty writes for love and harmony and in that spirit has founded the Borderless Journal.