Flowers, too, suffer death,

And yet they are guiltless.

So, too, our own being is pure

And suffers only grief,

Where we ourselves do not wish to understand.

What we call guilt

Is absorbed by the sun,

It comes to meet us out of the pure throats

Of flowers, fragrance and the moving gaze of children.

And as flowers die, So we die, too,

Only the death of deliverance,

Only the death of rebirth.