Garden of Words

By Sylvester Wong

I have written you a letter I would never send.

The words carried too much weight;

heavier than anything I risked.

I hid the letter in the soil,

as the flowers watched me toil.

The dandelions found it funny,

and promised to bring me you

if only I would set them free.

So I made a wish upon their seeds,

and sent it to the breeze

with a gentle baby’s breath.

Merry goes (Marigold) the cottons as they laughed,

and I knew it was futile as they rose.

Who am I trying to lie or kid?

No flower could bring me what I seek.

Long have I known

that words I cannot bring to lips

do not deserve to materialise.

Regardless of their incarnation,

be it kisses, wishes, or devotion,

they fade all the same.

Even then, the dandelions flew high,

because my jest means

nothing to them.

After all, I was the one

who wrote a letter I would never send.

And they were the ones

who ferried my love into the air,

knowing where I buried my creased sentiment

would remain barren and bare.

I have written you a letter I would never send.

The words carried too much weight—

heavier than anything I risked (Iris).

I hid the letter in the soil,

as the flowers watched me toil.

The dandelions (Dandelions) found it funny,

and promised to bring me you

if only I would set them free.

So I made a wish upon their seeds,

and sent it to the breeze

with a gentle baby’s breath (Baby’s Breath).

Merry goes (Marigold) the cottons as they laughed,

and I knew it was futile as they rose (Rose).

Who am I trying to lie or kid (Orchid)?

No flower could bring me what I seek.

Long have I known

that words I cannot bring to lips (Tulips)

do not deserve to materialise.

Regardless of their incarnation (Carnation)

be it kisses, wishes, or devotion

they fade all the same.

Even then, the dandelions flew high,

because (Hibiscus) my jest means (Jasmine)

nothing to them.

After all, I was the one

who wrote a letter I would never send.

And they were the ones

who ferried my love into the air,

knowing where I buried my creased sentiment (Chrysanthemum)

would remain barren and bare.

By Sylvester Wong