As April sets tongue into a spin
evanescent crystals keep it moist.
Seasons too pass into the void but
Life beats in a murmuring glen.
It’s beside a copious, swirling river
does a humane culture vibrate.
On its fecund bosom a mélange
of green cradles a protective cover.
If asphalt invades every nook and alley
evil breath scorching out all green
to the call of money, power and what not,
the plaintive cry is of the waterless lily.
Those crystals are the rubric of soul.
If they are lost it’s too late to cry foul.