The Garden of Regrets

Yesterday,
I went to the Garden of Regrets.
There were no birds,
trees had forgotten their names.

There was not even a trace of you,
the wind had blown out the candle.

Anyway,
Spring is patient and strong enough,
and Silence said all the words
I needed to hear:

no one is to blame,
Love is a flickering flame.

© Frédéric Georges Martin