Your father’s garden

La première féministe.
La première féministe.
I saw flowers reach for your father’s touch,
they sprung, then withered, then faded as such
their nature is. Their life I grasped, but
naught I saw; my eyes where shut
when waters still I passed. But wide they got,
vivid and bright when I wished they caught
what could be you. Then all I forgot: my deed,
my elders, my pride and each creed.

I sprung, then I withered. Now I’m fading as such
men’s nature is. Alas, I never felt your touch,
my searching in vain. Of hoping, of waiting too much.

Your brother, your lover, they well could see
that found she’s not, but who finds is she.