As I Lay There Wasting.

Every endless afternoon I waste while lying sleepless,
is wasted more if left in vain without the breathless wind.
And if that wind has not yet bathed with the silent monsoon,
the garden warm with scent of pears is surely wasted too.
Exhaling wafts of warm perfume, every stretch of earth
reminds me how I used to breathe your hair more than the air,
and if those pears can tell me not the reason I must rest
afraid I am to say while yawning, myself am wasted too.