Number 3

When the tulip sprang up beside the fresh green grass, it almost seemed to be your face. The tulip spoke the name of your face, so it rinsed its own mouth with musk and wine. No rose ever bloomed except in memory of your cheek; no violet ever grew without the likeness of the down on your face. The cypress, serving your graceful height, has nimbly and eagerly tucked up its skirt at the waist. Whoever sought color and scent in the meadow was pointed instead toward your face and your hair. The bud finds its opening from the morning breeze, even though its tightness came from that same breeze at first. The sickly breeze nurtures the soul in ease, breathing in the pure, healing air. The playful movements of the sweet breeze made the bud's heart melt with laughter.