The Gardener, 15

I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire. The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray. I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.