You are the rose, carefully tended,
Am a lotus, born out of mud,
You ornate the wealthy duke’s mistress gardens,
I grow in the muddy pond behind the poor gardener’s shed.
You are the pride of Eleanor’s garden and gardener,
I float among toads, twigs and other dried up things,
You revel in praises carried from powdered lips,
I float among toads, twigs and other dried up things.
Each night, when the wild wind ruffles your velvet petals,
And you look across the grass under the starry sky,
I see you looking at me, and the gardener’s children,
Splashing in the pond side by side.
You long for the rough hands that caress my mud coated
petals,
The soft gasp of a child’s wonder,
I see you and I see your pain,
No innocent, rough faced children are allowed inside the
grounds.
So you go to sleep weary eyed,
Preparing for the pretentious day to come by,
I see you and smile inside,
I float among toads, twigs and other innocent things.
