The Garden or the Flower

By Luis Camacho
Photo by Luis Camacho.

Bewilderment begot Death’s remorse

a flower, wilting in the cup of hands

flesh made against the source

as the prince, in all his

benevolence sang,

I would give for you

a garden, love, if only you should bear

those tears with silent devotion.

She looked on its gold, its promised names

of flowers not yet birthed

but as she wept she turned away

to reside among the fields:

for in that gloried cage she knew

no place for petals time had stolen

no roots in which its name might roost.

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