When the rhythm weeps from below.
It will snow.
Sakura blossoms of old.
In gardens of the abode.
Do not tarry dear toad.
The owe on top's got plan.
And the ladies have strung a grand design.
To align the matrimonial rites.
Into there rightful regions.
Of space and time.
To silent the soliloquy.
Of of the God that weeps mortal sins.
From crevices and surfaces.
That could blend with any tone or hue.
Bemuse yourself and play with some make up.
Then you'll see what makes us.