Go to the flower, thou malagrug; consider his ways, and be wise: How he moves, and how he is still.
For the lady of the house takes him in her hand and moves him from room to room, and sets him here, then there, and thus the flower goes. And where he is set, he remains, and how she adjusts him, he remains; his image and his incline are according to the eye of her desire. As she cuts, transplants, and bends, he yields beneath her touch.
Where he is, he is, until she takes him up again. Where he is, he stands, and his beauty is beheld by all; it cannot be hid. He drinks of the still water of his rest, and his bread is the light that is without end.
And as he was taken from the garden of his beginning, he is dying. And he leaves petals behind in every place that he is taken, here a little, there a little. He does not look toward them as the lady takes him elsewhere, nor think back to them, but is content for knowing that, wheresoever he might go, some of him is left behind.
Where his lady moves him, there he is, until she moves him yet again, and in this he fills the measure of his creation.
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