You cannot tell his age;
His child-like face is chiseled from rock,
And the lines of his small frame melt into the trees.
He is only short grass in the forest.
Nobody knows his name,
So they call him "Little Dragon."
He is a keeper in the gardens,
And seems to like best the moss and the lotus.
Often I see him there--
Hard to notice--
Humming some unknown tune.
He seems to forget himself,
And his sound is like the wind-blown reeds.
I go to the garden to see him,
Though he never speaks to me--
Not in words that is--
But rather in some dim remembranceI
lost in childhood.
Right now,
I cannot say what it was...