It is the curse of old age suddenly come upon me. I hear no sound. I am deaf. Still believing that the drum-beats could be heard in the palace, the deluded gardener in a frenzy continued his beating of the silent drum hour upon hour. As madness increased in him he continued to beat by day and by night, as dead leaves mounted about his feet.
Hope dies as dusk follows dusk.
Yet I wake not from the winter of love. Slow as dewdrops on autumn leaves, tears gather in my eyes. See their stains on my coarse-woven garment. Still he beats the soundless drum in frantic rhythm. Day follows day, but she for whom he longs comes not.