What happens to a secret revealed
By those whom I always trust?
My defects and truths are to me
As bread is to a crust.
My hands tend to touch the rose
And then move to the thorn;
I reveal my secrets to her fellow the corn;
Alas, to the rose he only bows.
The plants teach me a lesson
To their whispers I will listen;
In the courtyard,
Talking about their guard.
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