Heritage

Hurry now, hurry!

The wind is vicious

Tearing off the little petals,

Scattered as embittered wishes.

Each petal crashes hard, hard

Weighing down this solid stone,

This earth of dirt and time

Of teeth and tear and groan.

Who will gather the crushed petals,

From every corner trod?

Who can build the rose again,

Save alone the Hand of God?