The cherry tree speaks of a corridor
A wise old blue against a youthful pink
It imitates the sound of a crack
Which stopped a roaring machine
It speaks of pale young skin
Turning red under February Sun
It speaks of Savio, Camus, Rudd
And their echoes in ‘68
The cherry tree blooms a little more
As it cries out slogans
Which bathed the end of a decade
In timeless spring