(A lamentation of the weed)

I sat upon a rock in the Garden,
For my limbs were weakened from labour.
Then unto me come so subtly
The voice of the weed in the soil.
Yea, he doth speak.
Like a sick lad unto his mother,
He spake unto me.
And the following said he into mine ears:

“I lay low in the land of loam,
Looking at the sun in her glorious apparel,
I sip from the brook a fresh air,
And its cool breeze restores my soul.

I lay low in calmness as of a puppy,
Expectant for the touch of life;
To be cared for in the warm sand,
And to waggle my stem in his hands.

But, Nay, I look up and tears roll my face;
I cry because I die daily.
Throughout time, my soul knows bitterness,
I weep because the master comes.

Whom I trust—he comes.
The keeper of the yard—he comes.
Hanging on him the Amor I curse,
And in his hand, a spear—he thrusts.

He shoves through my throat
The poison whose name I cannot tell.
One by one, I lose my clothing
As darkness invades my eyes in death.

Alas!, my raiment of glory is away from me.
Hades has no place for me in his home.
But with love, all I think of is home.
And, steadfastly, I return to the land of loam.

Here again I come in Life
Hoping to find the favour of the keeper.
To see if I will find a place in his heart.
Nay, again does he close my eyes in sleep.

He lives, so will I.
He grows, so will I, too.
If my life he saves,
Yes, living, I will, too.”

With the speed as of a raging cavalry,
I charged to the house of the keeper.
My sandals disowned me,
My hair threatened to leave me,
For I moved like thunder—
Even, like lightning.
Yea, my running shook the earth.
And unto the keeper I appeared saying:

“He doth speak
He spake unto me
Yea, he doth speak

The plant thou shall save!
For that which thou doth not give
Thou shall not take.

He doth speak
Thou giveth unto nothing its life!
Thou shall take of nothing its life.

Yea, he spake unto me
It is the will of nature herself to give,
For that which thou owneth thyself was given thee.

He doth speak
I hear the wailing of the weed.
His travail for life cutteth through mine heart.

The weed spake unto me,
And his words give I unto thee
Spare him! Again I say, spare him!”

Hagios A. Akins