A fledgling bird flew from its nest to roam
Around a garden and to see what it
Was like. It sat on a rose-tree to rest.
By a mischance, it ran a thorn into
Its tender breast. Enraged by this, it cursed
The garden as an evil place and shed
Tears over its own pain and others’ pain.
It said that tulips were mere drops of blood –
Blood of the innocent – and that rosebuds
Hid in their pent-up hearts the secret of
The spring’s deceit. It asked if in this world,
With its foundation wrongly laid, there was
A single morning into which Time had
Not built an evening; and it wept so much
That song turned to blood in its throat and dripped
As tears from its eyes. Moved by its lament,
A hoopoe drew the thorn out of its breast
With its long beak and said, "Extract your gain
From your loss as the Ilower extracts gold from
Its rent breast in the shape of pollen. When
You suffer pain, do so in such a way
That it becomes its own redress. Get used
To thorns: become the garden’s very self."