Behold the flowers, who are so faithful to the earth,
Taken from fate’s very edge, which we then endow with a fate -
But who knows this? If they regret their withering,
It is for us to become their remorse.
Everything wishes to float upwards. There go we, heavy burdens, this way and that,
We ourselves are inclined to be enchanted by the weighty, by the heavy.
Oh, what shrivelled teachers are we to things,
Which have succeeded at eternal youth.
If you were to take one thing into intimate slumber and be in its sleep,
Be deeply with the things -: oh how lightly it would come
Day after day, up from the communal depths..
And perhaps you might remain, would bloom and be praised
For your conversion, as one now resembling what is theirs,
All those silent sisters of the meadow and the wind.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet