someone must pluck the bird
from amidst the pricking thorns.
who will bind the wounds
from one saved from the rosebush?
better I a servant in my masters garden
then amongst the satraps of the perfumed court.
let me stand in the Unsullied presence
as one who has wept with the broken
let me live in the hollow of His hand
and bandage the fallen birds
consider me a pauper but bless me with mercy
lest I too with the roses, fade and dim
unburnished, unblemished by passing years
let my love speak for me, make mute my fears.