Garden

Say, if my barren garden only holds
the shriveled rose, the dust, the blighting molds
that eat through joy and burn the dying leaves
so not a raven sits atop its eaves;

Does it deserve not a speckle of bliss?
A sin, is it, to dream of the sun's kiss
once in a while across the ashen wall,
that grows the shade of blossom next door tall?

But here I kneel by the gate, waiting for
the Time to lay her mercy on this land;
so that the heart grows rusty and so hoar,
forgets the false sparkles grazing the sand.

So this I hope as though it is my wish--
Still dreaming, one day, to forget I wish.

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