Two Centuries

The day divides into two centuries While I wait in the rose garden, looking at unborn roses. The rain has no wetness in it And the old man in the story Has reached his native land; But the journey is not over. Where does it end? I'm sorry the moth-child does not know it and so crawls upwards of a twig Pausing delicately over a thorn; Sways its fleshy head into the edge of a fat leaf. The first century was when I woke up in the morning And the second When I woke up in the evening No, I did not sleep in between But then, who can tell what happened?