Out of all the things I have lost,
I miss a certain lily the most.
She bloomed in summer, rain, and frost –
lit me up like a lighthouse on an abandoned coast.
I would sit next to her and sing a song,
and would not get up until the sun had set
or the cathedral had let out its hollow gong,
while the fishermen at sea cast their net.
Neither a wind stirred us apart;
nor a breeze took away her fragrance from me;
rejoiced in her presense my humble heart,
for to the rusted chamber she had found the key.
Then came a day when I plucked her away –
a part of her – to carry to bed,
for sleepless hours did I spend while I lay,
changing sides, my eyes red.
The next day saw the death of my lily;
in my trembling arms did her petals rest,
and I walk around in a manner so silly,
like an undesired, unwanted pest.