Temperate Flower
Temperate Flower
The temperate flower fades before my drenched eyes,
death is at hand, and my dwelling place is the blue sky.
I always loved the blithe bird.
But now her supple wings are burnt and gone,
Trees are aloof and forlorn.
This is my deserted garden.
And I love to live alone and forsaken.
When she will return from her home,
the place, blue-bird, and firmament won't be the same,
Only she could find some scattered leaves between the half-quenched lines...
Rain won't be so agile and malleable,
Now my soul craves for the white flower,
But now it will not bloom again.
The love has flowed and the moonflower
Dark, demure night in this prickling hour...