A Gardener with saintly vision,
Planted a garden making its division,
Into the zones two.
Fed he each plant and tree,
With the pure blood of his hopes;
And soon each nook and corner,
Began to flourish and blossom too.
Before they bore the mellow fruit,
And fragrant flowers with shades,
Light, deep and dark;
And enjoyed he the days of solace,
Death made him depart to the world next.
How sooner the garden changed;
Into a forest teeming with wild animals,
The hogs, the wolves, the snakes, the rats,
Came out of the kennels, hovels and holes,
Move they freely, with liberty, unafraid.
Their avaricious bellies are possessed,
With ever enhancing increasing appetite,
And each victual adds fuel to flames,
No laws, no scruples, no morals they obey.
The seats where cuckoos and nightingales,
Were to build up nests for the descendants,
Are usurped, snatched by crows and owls,
Their voices irritate the more indwellers.
From morn to eve they serve but themselves,
Feeding upon the leaves, flowers and fruit,
They even gnaw crust hard around the stems,
Yet night comes with the healing air and dew.
The eyes amaze at the miraculous game,
When on the morn next it appears unharmed,
For it was planted by a saintly man,
The eaters are to pass away,
The garden is to behind remain.