[A man cries over his sweetmeat son...]

 

A man cries over his sweetmeat son;
in his tearful eyes, a catch of flower.
It is a sadness that blooms and dies
in time.
He will know the next
from the first:
he recollects,
neverminding the difference.

The last grandule of flower
is without lines.
He will not speak it.
He cannot.