Variation on “Wilted Rose” (Sean Ali)

Burgeoning bud,
            the fleshy hand
Clean of the mud,
            clean of the sand
No form, no shape,
            No wine of the grape
A brewing storm
            from touch of the nape
In sand we sift,
            with fleshy hand
                        for gold
                                    we grip

The burgeoning bud
            is laughing a laugh
                        while the shepherd holds
                                    his rickety staff

How art thou staid,
            O soul of mine?
When the body is frayed
            by ravaging time
Without the shape, without the form
            it stood erect
                        although forlorn
Without the shape, without the form
            it stood still
                        amidst the storm

How art thou staid,
            O, soul of mine?
Whither hast flown
            this vanishing line?