The Wind

after Antonio Machado

The wind pulled up and spoke to me one day.
The jasmine on his breath took mine away.

‘This perfume can be yours too, if you wants:
just let me carry off your roses’ scent.’

‘My roses? But I have none left,’ I said.
‘The flowers in my garden are all dead.’

He sighed. ‘Give me the fallen petals, then.
The leaves that rattle in the empty fountain.’

With that, he left me. And I fell to weeping
for the garden that they gave into my keeping.

Don Paterson

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