Where may I take comfort from now?
If not in the warmth of my bed;
If not in the eyes of my family;
If not in the bud of the flower,
There is no where safe to stay.
And of all flowers, of all gardens,
It is you.
Even though I'm overflowing with love,
The ravines of my body do not take the excess
To where it belongs.
And the sand always caves in on itself,
We always run out of our time.
The lakes at the ends of my fingers
Will never be satisfied until I am no longer
A sea.
On earth, the gardens and the seas are never
Thriving closely.
Never in such vicinity to touch tip of the wave to
Tip of the petal.
Even the holy moon could not begin to guide me
In what path I should be taking
To ensure the happiness of the
Melancholic garden.
E.