by Shr-Hua Moore

The death-bells chime in the clear, early dawn,
A grim warning of what is to follow;
The sound of water from some distant hollow,
A bitter reminder of times long gone.

When March now seems to be the cruelest month,
And the supreme being surely cowers;
April showers bring white lily flowers,
The virus rising-- winter’s last triumph.

The muted, cold air seeps into my bones,
Just like the cough in my aching throat;
Yet still I think-- is this the antidote?
My fears transferred into unspoken groans.

Alas, the plague has rendered all hopes dim,
With graduation being doomed to fall.
One latent pandemic to rule them all,
And in the 8 P.M. darkness bind them.

Yet among the grey drizzle of the world,
I hear the birds engage in jocund song;
Their hymns remind me that life will be long,
And one day I will see my dreams unfurled.

I leave, having let my newfound fears roam,
Into the warmth and comfort of my home.