The Gardener XVI Hands Cling To Eyes

Hands cling to hands and eyes lingeron eyes: thus begins the record of ourhearts.    It is the moonlit night of March;the sweet smell of henna is in the air;my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers isunfinished.    This love between you and me issimple as a song.    Your veil of the saffron colourmakes my eyes drunk.    The jasmine wreath that you woveme thrills to my heart like praise.    It is a game of giving and with-holding, revealing and screening again;some smiles and some little shyness,and some sweet useless struggles.    This love between you and me issimple as a song.    No mystery beyond the present;no striving for the impossible; noshadow behind the charm; no gropingin the depth of the dark.    This love between you and me issimple as a song.    We do not stray out of all wordsinto the ever silent; we do not raiseour hands to the void for thingsbeyond hope.    It is enough what we give and weget.    We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wineof pain.    This love between you and me issimple as a song.