So far away from Paradise

I leave this garden
with the departure of its spring
I leave behind my cloak
on the bush of thorns
that once had roses
and now has dust

earth beneath the bushes
the clay furrows
the f͟l͟o͟w͟e͟r͟ beds
departed blossoms don't leave footprints
nor does their fragrance linger
into desolation

somewhere it does not matter
that my spot was marked here

closed for an abandonment
the gate hangs on its hinges

that bench
beneath the Gulmohur tree
where I had waited
so many afternoons
so many rambling recitations
of the impertinent wind

somewhere in that garden
there is a stone
that reads 1943

Yes
it is so f͟a͟r͟ away
from our Paradise
as if Spring never had been
nor gardens lost
to our drought


©maestral