The Garden Can Keep its Roses

Day by day, I walked past a garden
to marvel at magnificence –
the white doves cooing,
the pears, peaches and apples that abound,
and after all the scenes –
have my eyes fixed on the roses.

The roses with their mystic arrangements,
with the thorns that ward-off
intoxicated lovers from picking them.
And the euphoric bliss brought about
by the fragrance that perfumes;
the moist scent in Eden.

And then I’d pick a flower – a rose,
unmindful of the treacherous thorns
that would likely prick
my finger – and that drop of blood
to spill on the flowers petals
to add to its crimson pigment.

And then by envy, my chest would
heave a deep sigh while looking up
toward the sapphire ceiling of the sky
while the sun’s rays peeped through
the emerald-green foliage of the trees –
where the palomas nestled.

Clear, sunny afternoon –
I’d slowly pace down the road while
whistling out tunes – the scherzos,
the minuettes; all in staccato,
as the urgency for bringing home my gift
was felt while toiling my way.

Still a long way to go – where
in the opaline sky is a peaceful transparency
that grades off until it changes to tones of
dark violet toward the east, shifting to gold –
and at the horizon, the last beams of light vibrate;
oblique, reddish and losing their strength.

Alas! upon my neighbor’s doorstep,
with the present in my hand; that crimson bud
with claws that pierced through flesh.
Through my finger – and that drop of blood
to spill on the flower’s petals
to add to its crimson pigment.

But pinkish young woman, denied of tomorrow
as the sun yawned to sleep, took her sight forever.
And the first sign of the stars would mean
the last signs of her life too. There she lay,
breathless, eyelids shut to the world now,
forevermore deprived of my burning admiration.

I look at her cold face –
calm, no signs of stress, no signs of life.
I began blaming her: "Had you not left your door
open for Death to pass through and take you!"
I can never see her chestnut eyes anymore
with the tiny sparks, signs of her life.

With utter disappointment I cursed –
the opaline sky, the first stars, the emerald-green foliage of the trees
where the palomas nestled,
the scherzos, the minuettes – all in staccato.
Oh! and the pears, peaches and apples,
and the crimson bud with the drop of my blood.

I cast away the rose,
and a bitter sigh while staring at the velvet sky.
The stars twinkled; resembling the tiny sparks
that I used to behold in her eyes.
"You and your fragrance cannot bring her back!
What meaning is there for a pair of eyes in Eden?"

I turned my back against Feliz –
what happiness could I now hold?
In my hand are blisters – on the floor, my present.
The fragrance brings chills to my spine
as it insultingly conveys merriment.
Eden can keep its roses.

-dyan kay ben-