Go, sweet orchid, wither down, give away your blues
For some water, they forgot to take care of you.
In the heavy, holy winds, is there hope or not
The shy petals, cracking yellow, crimson-stained;
Bring the damage back into this curated space.
Faux-used soil, where filthy hands roamed roach-free
Holes inside one’s memory that is rooted deeply
Crimson in fuchsia light embraces the blue
One’s tight grip to make sure the plant never goes;
Trick, who’s waiting, everlasting joy shall one receive.
Soft, the orchid touched blooms for the first time, now,
And the lipstick smudged, clean token, all overspread!
There’s no pain like met in pleasure when in thrills birds sing
Right out the room’s window, shall I close it, orchid?
In the pebbles, steps on asphalt, shall they check my sweet…
Source: Tahitian Woman with a Flower by Paul Gauguin, 1891