Just as an actual garden can be full of hundreds and even thousands of precious flowers of so many different kinds and variety, so is the humand mind a garden of sorts–a garden of hundreds of thousands of memories.  And they are memories of every kind and variety.  They are memories mostly of what is worth remembering and mean the most to you–the memories of love and happiness and beauty and joy, things that are positive and bring a smile to your face and put a longing in your heart.  All this is what this poem of mine is about–all the gardens and memories we poor humans plant and harvest and cannot forget.  But somehow often must learn to say goodbye to.  That also is part of having a garden and sowing lots of memories: knowing when to say goodbye to the living past and living things that now make up your gardens of memories.


I know it’s time to go to sleep.
I know it’s time to shut out light.
And now because all hope is gone,
I know it’s time to say goodnight.
Winter has filled this empty room,
Though our hearts are still young with spring.
And while life may live somewhere near,
I know death touches everything.
For there are flowers unwatered.
And gardens that lie unplanted.
Pity the dreams that lived unreached!
And those who take love for granted.
Soon, mine shall be but memories,
And the past to keep me going.
As for these flowers and gardens,
Bitterness prevents from sowing!
So no gardener shall I be,
Who sought words to sow and flourish.
For there is life from hate of death
Which no words of love can nourish.
Reality is the harsh curve,
Like the earth curves around the sun;
For love makes of us poor poets
Who see hope gone, but never done!
So let fantasy cast its net,
Like clouds that encircle the wind.
For poets are hopeless dreamers
Who dare think life should never end.
And though I listen to your heart,
As I would listen to my own,
Were it I could die forever…
Before my heart should beat alone!
So I pray for the Hereafter.
I pray with kisses soft and sweet.
I pray for hope and salvation,
And for reality’s defeat!
But there is only winter here,
And the closing of eyes and breath.
There is no springtime of hope here.
Only gardens harvesting death.
So I kiss the cold lips of it.
I kiss the eyelids of your eyes.
I kiss gardens of memories,
And shall till every flower dies!
Then I pray again to Heaven.
I pray you will know its reward.
I pray that God is merciful…
And His mercy may sheathe death’s sword.

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