The garden stretched out in the dark,
To olive groves as old as air,
To pines in which the nightjars whirled,
And clapped their wings attracting mates.
The garden kept its boundaries vague:
It ended, but it never ceased.
The smell of earth and growth the same,
No matter how the planet turned.
The garden had an ancient name,
And older still its crumbling walls.
The nightingales could tell its tales,
Instead they chose to lure the moon.
The garden drew us back to muse
On how we’d lived, and how we’d tried.