The Gardener XVI: Hands Cling To Eyes

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger

on eyes: thus begins the record of our

hearts.

    It is the moonlit night of March;

the sweet smell of henna is in the air;

my flute lies on the earth neglected

and your garland of flowers is

unfinished.

    This love between you and me is

simple as a song.

    Your veil of the saffron colour

makes my eyes drunk.

    The jasmine wreath that you wove

me thrills to my heart like praise.

    It is a game of giving and with-

holding, revealing and screening again;

some smiles and some little shyness,

and some sweet useless struggles.

    This love between you and me is

simple as a song.

    No mystery beyond the present;

no striving for the impossible; no

shadow behind the charm; no groping

in the depth of the dark.

    This love between you and me is

simple as a song.

    We do not stray out of all words

into the ever silent; we do not raise

our hands to the void for things

beyond hope.

    It is enough what we give and we

get.

    We have not crushed the joy to

the utmost to wring from it the wine

of pain.

    This love between you and me is

simple as a song.