When the forest falls silent and the air starts to curl,
When the guests who once trod there depart for the world:
Still stands there the garden in the heart of the wood,
Still sits a reminder of things that are good.
Once crafted by hands that could carve out the dawn,
And when those hands left, then the task was passed on;
That Love couldn’t help but breathe into it life
And the world couldn’t help but bring it to strife.
But the garden that stood there, exceedingly kind,
Had no thoughts of blame in its vine-shrouded mind.
There were only the flowers, the trees, and the moon
There was only its guests, always gone far too soon.
For the garden knew nothing of wrongness, or right;
It had only seen beauty in the liquid moonlight
There was only the Jasmine in hedges it grew
There were only its keepers; it nurtured them, too.
And when, growing past it, those hands did depart,
The garden forgave in its soft soil heart
As they pushed past the Ivy, as the light pierced the sky,
It would vow that fore’er in its thoughts they would lie;
It kept them like lyrics, in each bird’s morning song,
And it swore they’d remain there, as its memory was long.
For the garden that stood there, a haven to all,
Loved each pair of footsteps that entered its walls.
