A flower
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Flower season is past the leaves are dry and the branches scattered sigh after the morning rain. Flower season is past but its hand holds still one two-colored flower: and white pure as love”. The rest of the flowers are fallen like bodies to the grave only this my flower lasts, gone from its root awaiting rain lest its colors fade. But like a very man not keen to leave the world this rare flower would not die and I would lose my colors too if it should die. In a summer so very cruel there yet trembles in my hand a two-colored flower: Protect it from the violence of the sun! |
S. Rukiah
tr. after Damais