O pilgrim on the path of life,
you have travelled far;
now you have come to rest
and make yourself a home;
and plant a garden there.
You measured out the plot of land,
designed it with your love,
laid precious stones along its paths,
planted trees for shade,
beneath them, marbled seats; and
roses red as heart’s red blood, or
white as purity; scented as all beauty veiled;
among the roses, jasmine, iris, lily, honeysuckle;
and in the evening, night’s pale flowers that yield
all the scented charms of cooling dusk;
and in the centre, a fountain plashing,
ever different, ever the same,
to be the token of your resting soul..
now you build a wall around it,
stone by stone. Two things
I ask of you, O faithful one:
make an arched gate within the wall
that you may not make your neighbour envious;
where you may invite him to join you,
that neighbour who is yourself disguised..
and as you lay each stone
to guard your peace from fox and wolf,
remember - that a paradise with walls
is but a parable, a paradigm,
for that true paradise which knows no walls;
rest there, traveller.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.