The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odour of jasmine.
'In return for the odour of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odour of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
'Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'
The wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'
