It should be spring now.
The young leaves are pristine.
She should be a girl, just blossoming.
Teardrops like dew cling to her cheeks.
In a land of foreign paper
she has prematurely aged
making her untimely run back and forth 
between tragedy and pride.
Rosary beads on their string --
under a tree bent by its overabundant fruit.
Whose body scrapes the flagstone?
Whose hands are twisting the beads? 

This belongs to your previous life,
free and alone,
a kasaya over the boiling body of dust.
The string of beads is the same.
Why won't you pick them up?
What are you clutching in your hands?