The leaf tips bend

under the weight of dew.

Fruits are ripening

in Earth’s early morning.

Daffodils light up in the sun.

The curtain of cloud at the gateway

of the garden path begins to shift:

have pity for childhood,

the way of illusion.


Late at night,

the candle gutters.

In some distant desert,

a flower opens.

And somewhere else,

a cold aster

that never knew a cassava patch

or gardens of areca palms,

never knew the joy of life,

at that instant disappears-

man’s eternal yearning.

Thich Nhat Hanh


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