I brought a flower to him.
The wise old man shook his head.
Child, he said
I made the trees and the flowers;
I made the sun that gives warmth,
I made the rains that water the trees
That give flowers and fruits.
These I have given to you,
And you bring them back to me?
Give me something that I do not have,
That I cannot create myself:
Your love, your faith, your sincerity.
I want the flowers of your heart.
These I do not have.
On these I live.
For these I come again and again
Knocking at your door like a mendicant
Accepting tortures and insults
And welcoming the crown of thorns.
For these in my lone and scented
Places I cry in silence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem