I raised a garden in a golden grove.
A flood of life arrayed in rigid ranks
Along its labyrinthine paths I wove
To sculpt my Babel hid by rolling banks.
Each blossom brilliant as the breaking morn
When new light permeates still sleeping seas,
All ripe and redolent as Eden-born;
None fallen know such fragrances as these.
I led her through my garden late in May,
(My wicked roots all twisted to deceive)
And both to my delight and my dismay,
She loved it so she swore she’d never leave.
Oh how my lover’s eyes will sink to grief
As time unearths the bones buried beneath.