Anon.
This rose pink lotus bud is like her gown—
The gown that once she wore.
Those petals, whispering to the evening wind,
Seem like her silk skirt moving on the floor
Of that still room where now she moves no more.
This little lily pool is like her face.
There shadows come and go
As thoughts, unspoken, drifted through her eyes.
Speaking of her I wonder, even now,
Whether she loved me. I shall never know!
The old men at the tables smiled and said,
“Her sleeves are rainbows flashing from our wine,
Her hands are petals of an apricot flower,
Her mouth a ripe persimmon’s deepest red.
Who shall enjoy her favor for an hour?
Who has the gold to buy so fair a flower?”
But I said nothing, knowing she was mine.