After The Long Winter

Disconsolate, the prince wanders through his dry garden. How can the lilacs bloom if she is not sitting in its center? The musicians are exhausted, their instruments are unturned. The poet stammers again and again. His white head bowed, he falls silent. Servants have spilled another vase of wine before it could reach us. The red liquor stains the yellow-green grass. Oh, my prince, what can you expect of me, when so many worthy men stumble in the tall reeds? Release me, prince, to seek her in other gardens, the memory of the scent of lilacs my only guide.