The Flower Pot

There is an ancient forest, its giant trees

Support the skies

And there is a clay pot: in it grows

A common flower.

On the window sill of a lowly house

It quietly grows.

Each day to the flower pot an old woman comes,

She waters the bloom.

Her hand trembles, her back bent with age,

Heavy the pitcher weighs:

Yet how she loves the plant, bends over it,

Washes its leaves.

And once when I saw the old one

Watering her bloom

Suddenly like ancient forest flourished, sprang

This small flowering plant.

Like ancient forest, God's eye wide opens over it

Both day and night

To quench its thirst from abundance of abyss and

heaven too

With streams, rain and dew.