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Summer of roses! O empress of flowers!
You are all I care to know:
  you and your many sisters
  who launch your love arrows, though already caught
  in the pull of the tomb.

  What words do you whisper in that silent language?

Why do you insist so unyieldingly
That your garden must fade as it is born?
Do you bloom only for the poet
  whose mind you pollinate with your beauty
  and who immortalizes your unspoken wisdom
  in a simple phrase?