The Gardener: 39
I try to weave a wreath all the morning, but the flowers slip and they drop out.
You sit there watching me in secret through the corner of your prying eyes.
Ask those eyes, darkly planning mischief, whose fault it was.
I try to sing a song, but in vain.
A hidden smile trembles on your lips, ask of it the reason of my failure.
Let your smiling lips say on oath how my voice lost itself in silence like a drunken bee in the lotus.
It is evening, and the time for the flowers to close their petals.
Give me leave to sit by your side, and bid my lips to do the work that can be done in silence and in the dim light of stars.
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