To whom shall I give this flower?
I found it, burgundy and blue,
A painful bruise whose bloody hue
Wreaks of the spot on which I cower.
Roots from below, roots from above!
My limbs are branches, my sorrow
Leaves that succumb on the morrow
To a change in season and the loss thereof.
A fragrance of hope assails my brain;
I fight, I flounder, I tremble and wander…
Yet thoughts are a thief: I see him plunder
The morning’s bright and melodic refrain.
Am I to gift what I ne’er was given?
Are we heirs to nothing, or all at once…
Beneficiaries of beauty’s inheritance?
Come, take it all and take your leave
Before I am found and not forgiven!