My Solitude Is a Garden By Adonis Solitude is a garden but with only one tree. Despair has fingers yet it can only grasp dead butterflies. Even when sorrowful, the sun dons the raiment of light. Death comes from behind, even if it seems to come from the front. The front belongs only to life. Madness is a child in the garden of reason, playing the loveliest games. Time floats amid joy, and settles amid sorrow. Oblivion holds a harp; memory plays silent grief upon it. The world has wounded me all over, yet wings grow from my wounds. The darkness that assails me makes me shine brighter. Solitude is also a ladder by which I climb toward light. Poetry, this floating bridge built between the self you cannot understand and the world you do not know.
