I have accepted your departure,
and ever since, I keep singing the endless hymn of patience.
I accepted, thinking,
that in the garden where you had blossomed as a celestial flower,
there was no caretaker, no gardener.
I accepted, rather thinking,
that on the night when the sky grew heavy with clouds,
you were then the lone visible shard of moonlight.
I thought,
a flower blooming in the garden can be easily picked by anyone,
I thought, the moon in the sky can be freely gazed upon by anyone.
But in the very moment of reaching out, that day the gardener came and stood before me,
and to veil you away, the clouds rushed in,
a little too far, a little too eager.
That is why you could not be gathered by me,
even after a whole night of waiting, you never emerged
from behind the shroud of clouds.
So I steadied myself this way,
you are another’s flower, the queen of the clouds,
can love ever be born in you for mortals?
Thus, you could not be mine,
there could not be our union.
And my only companion today is patience,
and so I keep singing, ceaselessly, this hymn of patience.
Whatever is lost upon the bosom of the earth, or left unclaimed,
I have heard that patience is the very last refuge.
Other than this, is there truly anything
that heals the ache of what cannot be possessed?
Do you know of any faith beyond this?