She stands beneath the blossoming sakura

On a misty morning in April.

Her mind wanders, lost in an impassable fog.

Today she will meet the stranger to whom

She is engaged, to whom she belongs.

Oh, but she must not cry

Or the synthetic perfection of her skin

Shall be ruined.

Oh, but she must not reject her courtship

Or her family’s honor

Shall be dislodged by shame.

She stands beneath the blossoming sakura,

Wondering why her love, her affection,

Is inessential.

Her concerns, her complaints

Are but puffs of silent air to be ignored.

Her duty, she is told, is to serve as a

Good wife to her husband

And a wise mother to her children.

She stands beneath the blossoming sakura

And thinks,

If love is nonsense, then so too is happiness.

On this misty morning, she sees herself

In the flowering tree,

The impermanence of the delicate petals

Like the impermanence of her blissful youth.

She stands beneath the blossoming sakura,

Her fate chosen by the winds

That carry the petals through the mist.