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Nothing
in my garden of chrysanthemum
can make me smile
not the clutch of winged Monarchs
perched on my rosals,
neither fishbones nor the trees
I had long since abandoned
the cello for leeches in the lawn
and for the din of infant years
For at the top of my voice
I can now desolate the young grass
while the last fanned fable of my only sin
lies peacefully on the night
my star fell from the sky
Who will forgive me
my one and true solace?
The boughs of the Dianthus
had died with the Amaranthus
without a just man’s prayer
and a moment’s care
The yellow Thrips
are in abundance
leaving me no sleep
Already October comes
and they say the Amaryllis
is boiling in brine–
the salt of my one and only crime
leaving me with the color of death
on my cheeks.
