“The Garden of Infinite Longing”
Within the restless whispers of mornings,
a garden rises, aching with unseen colors,
where shadows stretch their longing fingers,
and the sky leans gently into silence,
its blue mouth sighing secrets of eternity.
Endless, the paths spiral like constellations,
weaving footsteps into earth’s deep breath,
while evergreen desires tremble in leaves,
the rain clothed in silver threads of mystery,
kissing the roots of unfulfilled destinies below.
Oh, the vines curl in questions unanswered,
invisible hands pulling at the hem of time,
dragging it through the soil of tender shame,
where every petal unfolds like a memory,
panting with a thirst that quakes the heart.
Here burns the flame of unspoken hunger,
each flower a vessel for unshed tears,
its nectar brewed from ancient departures,
its fragrance longing for lips never calling,
its stem a spine of trembling sorrow, awake.
Come closer, feel this silence carved deeply,
this garden stares into untamed eternities,
the gaze of stars lost in its endless green,
their light captured like lovers in embrace,
but never touching, only naming the void.
The wind carries verses not sung aloud,
rinsed of their letters, raw like an open wound,
its music rooted in the trembling horizon,
where finches weep instead of singing joy,
their wings dragging infinities of unsaid goodbyes.
Even the moonlight flees the curved edges,
its pale shimmer bowing beneath vines,
where climbing roses burn crimson desires,
licking the flesh of walls that cannot feel,
wounds written in the brickwork of yearning.
A river flows beneath the loins of meadow,
murmuring secrets it dare not scream,
its waters stained with the ink of wandering,
its voice breaking in ripples against rocks,
each stone a monument to halted desires.
The garden’s clovers hold the burdened earth,
their green breath echoes beneath the soil,
craving the sun that kisses but never stays,
its touch brief as a shadow’s lament,
its warmth stolen before it truly settles.
And within this kingdom of longing’s pulse,
hands of the unseen sculpt orbs of air,
shaping blossoms with trembling whispers,
and every dream collapses into a new bud,
its petals lying heavy with molten hope.
Longing turns ivy that cradles the oak’s bones,
like a lover drowning in their own embrace,
until growth becomes a prison of flowering,
until the roots twist time’s arteries shut,
leaving space only for silence’s endless cry.
Step across this garden, dear wandering soul,
press your palms to the bark of aching spirit,
hear the song that no throat dares to utter,
for every branch cradles its own exile,
every wind carries an unending yearning.
The scents blend, a chorus of slow despair,
jasmine of innocence lost, lavender’s regret,
roses urging blood into ancient lips sealed,
and lemon balm murmuring brief forgiveness,
their mingled vapors rising to undying stars.
Even the insects here hum broken hymns,
their legs brushing against grass like violins,
their wings sweeping the dusk’s orange fire,
a choir of aches strumming the strings of dusk,
as the garden burns deeper its mark on the night.
Loneliness dances beneath the weeping fiddle tree,
where soft blossoms twirl as if partners unseen,
shadows waltz on dewdrops that wait for release,
until morning’s cruel light splits them wide open,
yet the longing beneath persists, immortal, intact.
The fox walks softly where desires have fallen,
its eyes glimmering with the lost names of stars,
its paws imprint questions in the garden’s soul,
and its breath lifts the seeds of things not born,
things waiting to break free but caged forever.
Under waving grasses, the worms thread narratives,
sewing longing into the undertones of loam,
and yet their tale stretches outward like a song,
a spiral without an ending, only deepening,
its verses written directly into earth’s memory.
Pause. Let your breath rest on these trembling roots.
Do you feel it, the pull of forgotten echoes?
The heart of this garden beats in your chest,
for its longing breathes within every wandering soul,
binding us like threads stretching to a sun unseen.
Year after year, the garden composes its silence,
each spring disrobes it anew, yet it remains full,
its branches sway, but their hunger pauses not,
and its flowers open only to dissolve forgotten,
never wilting, but eternally longing to bloom again.
Turn away if you must, into fleeting distractions,
but the garden will remain here, vast and patient,
its roots entangling your footsteps in quiet whispers,
its roses lingering in the marrow of your grief,
its air heavy with the weight of infinite longing.
For though its petals may sing of birth,
and its leaves may quiver in sunlight’s breath,
at its very core, within its sealed heart,
it cradles only the quiet sob of desire,
a garden not of blooms, but of aching infinities.
Part II
“In the Labyrinth of Eternal Petals”
The air trembles, soft as whispered shadows,
each blade of grass birthed from molten dreams,
woven in silk, the roots hold centuries,
beneath my feet, the earth sighs, remembering.
Here, the sun lingers, a golden wound,
its light pours honey across forgotten stones,
and the trees are heavy with unshed tears.
What is this place, strung with echoes,
where vines curl, lovers clasped mid-flight,
their green fingertips beckoning infinity?
Each flower, a mouth spilling quiet secrets,
their tongues golden-laced, dipped in longing.
The sky, a parchment scrawled by wind,
an endless language I cannot decipher.
I tread carefully, as if skinning silence,
the soil hums with stories of those before,
those who tasted the fruit that never ripens,
their hands trembling with insatiable hunger.
Leaves fall not with death, but desire,
a slow, yearning descent towards the unseen,
each a small prayer scrawled by time.
The roses bruise their colors into twilight,
scarlet erupting; a slow-motion scream.
Thorns grow not to wound, but to cherish,
tiny guardians of their fragile sun-blood hearts.
Underneath a weeping willow, I feel it,
the trembling roots, the pulse of centuries,
secrets that rise and cling like mist.
Deep ponds reflect skies that do not know dawn,
mirrored heavens trapped within their watery cages,
as if longing created this mirrored geometry,
this overlapping of realms tearing gently apart.
Frogs sing like weary troubadours of yearning,
their voice undulating into night’s wounded beauty,
and the stars, docile beasts, awaken shyly.
In this garden, the moon is a wound,
her light a fragile thread stitching distances,
dripping onto the petals cupped in worship,
while my palms catch only the echo of her warmth.
Branches curve like questions unanswered forever,
each leaf carved with trembling lines of poets,
hands lost to their own incomprehensible depths.
The air smells of kisses never arrived,
their salt and sweetness buried in the breezes,
and an invisible violin thrums, endless, bending,
its strings tuned by the wind’s quiet fingers.
Every corner is a ceremony of absence,
phantom hands brushing against my shoulders,
and whispers that know my forgotten names.
Oh, to grasp the eternal on the tips of fingers,
to hold both the fleeting and the infinite,
as dew clings tenderly to the breathless dawn,
stretching like sighs across trembling grass blades.
The fruit, round and dark as a question,
hangs from the bough like an unfinished promise,
its skin glistening with temptation’s mute plea.
I bite, and the sweetness is an ache,
the taste spills into my veins, into dreaming.
The roots drink, thirsting for unshed tears,
and soon the trees grow taller than longing,
casting shadows between suns that never burned,
burying heat beneath silver layers of moss
where sleep and awakening bend into each other.
There is no escape from such aching green,
from the labyrinth of blossoms that never settle,
their colors spill beyond the borders of flesh,
their radiance surpassing the expanse of sky.
Every step tightens the thread of forever threads
wrapped around my ribs like an invisible lover.
Each breath weighs heavier than its departure.
The air murmurs of lovers who grew hands
only to fail to reach what shimmered,
while dandelions float as broken stars fallen.
The grass holds their confessions like a choir,
each blade becoming thinner, sharper, softer,
until the song pierces the unmarked field.
And there– the fountain standing still, breathing,
its waters choke on moons that grew too close.
My reflection warps, trembling on its liquid lips,
face shifting in and out of the quiet currents.
Between each ripple, I see myself dissolving,
as if this garden eats loneliness, devouring gently,
and paradox becomes its own, unspeakable altar.
Storms erupt not in wreckage but in music,
clouds unravel their thickened threads of dusk,
and I live the entire sky in one blink.
Every corner burns with scents of juniper,
streets of invisible cities laid underfoot,
leading to nowhere, curling into themselves.
Night pulls its cool dark shawl tighter still,
a velvet sky stitched with longing’s tapestry.
Even wind has grown timid, a barefoot ghost,
curling itself between gaps in touching fingers.
I feel its pulse in the leaves, their whispers,
as if all this longing yearned to take shape,
to rise up, embrace, and fall apart again.
In this vast cathedral of infinite yearning,
no bell tolls– the silence is its own prayer.
It is not the absence but the fullness of longing,
that pulls my chest apart like broken doors.
I stretch, I ache, I scatter into the earth,
becoming root, stone, petal, mirrored pond,
and find myself endlessly blooming, unfinished.
By
Na Yama
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