DICENTRA

To thee, who weep incessantly by the hour of night fall.

Thy subtle voice that nibbles beneath thy pillow
With whom I toil my breathless crave
Ask thee nothing but thy heart’s desire.

While I sojourn the bottomless labyrinth

Like a Bedouin that niche’s the rudiments of lover’s art
Found thee nothing but a purple of quandary
Raiment’s of tryst waiting in oblivion.

In thee, with whom I seek refuge.

Tell thee something, where thou hide thy treasure throes?
With pleasure cribs and pearl of tears
Hanging like gardens in orchard’s spring

Will plough thy soul, through the labour of long winter hours
Which I planted in the banks of the river floor
Where I hope to be fruitful and spread thy mighty branches
To bear witness to thy subjects, too sublime to be expressed.

For I: the Laurel, amongst the kernel of gardens-flourishes like a bud

Where its navel tied within thy belly
Just to obviate the candour of thy sorrow,
Offers thee a Dicentra: "A flower, fit for every man’s garden";
To stop the bleeding of your heart.

rhydel dogadle