Nine of swords

The heady bloom of tuberose
In the garden climb
Into my nostrils and pierce
My heart with longing,
It blooms too, a blood lotus
Of pain in the pool of desire,
The water is murky and the root
Goes down to eternity.

Three of swords

The sword will sever
The heart at last,
From its bashful naiveté.
And Death shall ride
The pale horse, unkind,
Ending all that will not mend.
After the tower is burnt
Down to the ground,
Hope will again sing.
The moon will bless
The needed retreat,
The Earth will lull to sleep.

Regret

Living without you,
Frozen in a gilded frame,
Leaving you behind,
Heaped in a leafy grave.

Sweet April rain 
Will spray countless sweets
Over your headstone,
And earth will bleach your bones.

Tears which were shed are gone,
The salt of memory though,
Keeps the wounds afresh,
Lying in watch for some callousness.