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A fan’s light tap Was enough to chip This flower vase In which the roses Now are dying. No sound it made
But a hairline crack Day after day Almost unseen Crept slowly round the glass And dropp by dropp The water trickled out
While the vital sap In the roses’ stems Grew dry. Now no-one doubts: “Don’t touch”, they say, “It’s broken”.
Often, too, the hand one loves May lightly brush against the heart And bruise it. Slowly then across that heart A hidden crack will spread And love’s fair flower perish.
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2/9/2010 1:44:40 PM. #.26# You Are Here:
The Broken Vase (trans. of Sully Prudhomme) by Pete Crowther