Considering a Flower

The land is renewed
But my hands keep growing older
Our lives burn; the flower fades;
The grass grows; our embers smolder.

Time cut short is like vinegar—
And fifty times as sour.
But in a short life, fifty times
I will work a thousand hours.

My vision will grow dim.
My eyes—I may lose them both.
But will I ever see the flower
I can call my boast?

Or will a wilderness grow instead?