Seasons have receded from the garden of my being.
What I have observed is unsettling. Don't ask.

Your hands are disabled.
Pick the bloom of sight with lashes.

None of us possess these flowers.
Whose is the Garden? Don't ask!

The night is bleak. Hold high the lamp of thought.
Who cares for whom in the caravan? Don't ask!

Your very own confidants were ignorant of their secrets.
What multitudes I have inquired to reach you, don't ask!