The Tulip's Silent Love

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As my soft, gentle face looked down,

the radiant Sun looked at me and asked sweetly:

“Who are you, lovely girl? Why are you standing so still,

gazing at my light as it moves through the skies?

With such calm, loving eyes, you keep looking back at me—

is it that you want to say something?

If I am wrong, forgive me—but I had to ask.”

How could I reply? What could I say?

Can a scentless flower ever speak to the glorious Sun himself?

Because I loved the noble one with all my heart,

this world mocked me—called me "just a tulip" in contempt.

But the sacred love I hold for him will not wither

by the harsh winds of others' scorn.

I stood there, boldly facing him.

What did I feel for this great-hearted deity?

Even when I tried to hide the flood of feelings with a smile,

that smile betrayed me.

Those were not dew-drops on my cheeks, but tears of joy.

I told myself they’d dry in the sunlight.

The trembling in my body was not from cold winds or shyness,

but from the intense heat of love I dared not confess.

Is the love of this “lowly flower” so worthless

that even the divine one would mock it?

Let my love remain forever silent.

If he can sense it—let him.

For I expect nothing else from love but love itself.

The fruit of knowledge is knowledge;

so too, the fruit of love is only love.

Love is supreme bliss.

Its beauty is also its pain.

Let love burn within me brighter than space and time.

If this body is scorched by its heat, so be it.

For has not my soul been kissed by his radiant light?

Perhaps he truly sensed my heart.

He grew pale. His divine hands trembled

as he raised them toward me.

Words failed us. We just looked at each other.

Just then, cruel clouds covered the sky. Why did night fall so soon?

When I bowed my head to offer my final respect,

the god, seeming weak and sorrowful, turned away.

And now—sleepless, with bloodshot eyes—he returns every dawn,

his gaze searching for me in the garden courtyard.

My face is withered, and the southern wind

has torn apart my aging body.

Perhaps now, the Lord of Love cries in sorrow,

holding the blue sky close, lamenting:

“If only I hadn’t missed that pure, innocent flower!

If only we had not loved so silently…”

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