Poem XXIX

This earth from which you grew
Is precious to me
For that reason
Thought its taxed soil
Could not bear another like you.

My words may blossom
In vain imitation
Of your splendour,
But like dusted silk flowers
Tossed in the wind,
They can never convey your fragrance.

Yet I persist
And place this false bouquet
At your feet, my rose
A synthetic tribute
To the flower that you are.