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?