Le vase brisé
This vase wherein the vervain dies
A fan's light touch left a crack fine.
Soft blow it was to all the eyes,
And made no noise one would divine.
Yet slight as is the little bruise,
It gnaws at its crystal each day.
Unseen but sure in its slow cruise
Around the vase it makes its way.
Fresh water leaves in dribs and aught,
The flowers' soul will expire soon.
Though none has yet to suspect naught,
Touch not the vase for it's in ruin.
Thus often when the hand you love
Strokes light the heart yet breaks it so,
The heart shatters on its blest love,
The flower dies of its love's woe.
It looks whole to the world outside,
Yet feels the growth, and softly cries,
Of its wound deep and fine inside.
It is injured, touch not the vase.