My Garden

The sky is tightly embraced
By the cloud, with its damp cold cloak
The barren garden
Is alone day and night
With its pure sorrowful silence
Its instrument is rain, its song is wind
Its garment is the mantle of nakedness
And if another garment is needed
It is woven of golden flames, with warp and weft of wind
Let it be cut, or not grow, whatever it wills
Or does not will
No gardener passes by
The garden of despair
Waits not for spring
If no ray of warmth shines from its eyes
If no leaf of a smile grows upon its face
Who says the barren garden is not beautiful?
The tale is told by the fruits once reaching the heavens
Now asleep in the coffin of lowly soil
The barren garden
Its laughter is blood-stained, tearful
Forever upon its yellow-maned horse
The king of seasons, autumn, gallops within