Spring Is Christ

Everyone ate and slept, and the homeland became empty; now is the time to gracefully enter the garden.  
We gather apples and head towards the peaches, taking a few words from the fresh flowers to the jasmine.  
Springtime is like a magical Christ, calling for the resurrection of the plant martyrs from their shrouds.  
When those idols open their sweet mouths, life doesn't reach a kiss but becomes intoxicated by the scent of their breath.  
The glow of the rose and tulip tells me that a hidden light is beneath this cover.  
The leaf trembles, and my heart on the branch trembles; the leaf quivers from the wind, and my heart from the beauty of Khotan.  
The playful hand of the morning breeze stirred the perfume, teaching the children of the garden the nature of beauty.  
The holy spirit's wind blew, and the trees of Mary swayed their hands like a husband and wife playing.  
When the cloud saw that beauties were beneath the canopy, it scattered a shower of jewels in Eden.  
When the red rose tore its collar in joy, it was time for Jacob to receive the shirt.  
When the Yemeni agate lips of the beloved smiled, the scent of God reached Muhammad from Yemen.  
How often we spoke scattered words, finding no peace of mind, except in the scattered locks of that king of time.