Where now the Gardener, He who tends Life,
Surely not succumbed to this Age of Pure Strife ?
For men takest root from His planted seeds,
Which shalt be flowers, which grow as weeds,
Which will bear fruits, which shalt hold sting,
Which claimed by Fairies, to adorn their Magic Ring ?
Some bear bright petals and dance with the breeze,
Others take deeper root, to grow as tall trees,
Some, alike ivy, preferring a forest’s semi-dark,
Strangulate all they touch, in an untended park;
The buttercup and daisy, of sweet yet short lives,
The bright Dragon’s Tongue, her leaves alike knives.
The rose, for her beauty, is sure clad with thorn,
While gentle, potent poppies dance alone in the corn;
The lofty sequoia, above all others she is Peer,
And lives to grow on, for a thousand long year.
So where now the Gardener, His forest is full,
Which shalt survive, which will He cull ?
For man unattended, to rule his own lands,
Will surely reduce all to a desert of sands.