Sometimes a small boy finds a tiny seed
And takes a porcelain pot whose colours charm
His eye to serve as a garden-bed,
Where monstrous blossoms and blue dragons swarm.

He goes away. Down snakes the coiling root;
The stem lifts from the soul, grows, branches out;
While deeper daily dives its hairy foot,
Until it bursts the belly of the pot.

The child comes back. He wonders much to see
Above the shards the stout green daggers dart;
The stalk is tough; he cannot tug it free;
Against the thorns his stubborn fingers smart.

So, in my wondering soul, is love begot:
A simple flower of Spring I thought I'd sown;
In coloured fragments lies the porcelain pot
Where a huge aloe's root went thrusting down!

(translated by Brian Hill)