Gene Maldinado

A walk in the late hours of Spring
Birds singing the songs they sing
Perfect pitch, harmonic rings
O, the unbearable lightness of being

Beneath my feet, sea of green
I bow to the tulips, clothed as queens
Not a cloud in the sky to be seen
O, the unbearable lightness of being

Sun peaks with high noon bells
Symphonic chorus of rightness swell
All about me seems so well
O, the unbearable lightness of being

To assume this euphoric collage
Is, simply put, a cruel mirage
A utopic display, a soul-sick montage
O, the unbearable lightness of being