Baisakh in April

Swallows fly low
Cool morning mist
Sun lights up
Warm brown earth
A sea of white, wispy cotton
Waves of people gathered
At that garden in Jallian
There strode the Butcher King
Ordered the great culling
Pearls scattered, Flowers strewn
Warm brown earth, even warmer, now red
It was Baisakh in April
A time for renewal, and rejoicing