The Gardener

In your eyes
pomegranates bear fruit
on the eve of a harsh winter.
Your words –
the life I have left unlived
the spoils of my own treason.
I own
neither root
nor blossom.
I collect seeds
without fingerprints
to reminisce
as I depart.
One day they’ll find ground
or even me as a gardener
yielding profusely
two handfuls of toil
without the slightest guilt
or mostly yearning.
It won’t be your eyes of course
but they will pledge
a parcel of spring
owed to me by time.

Translated into English by: Despina Pirketti