It was still dark.
I stepped
around the stones
until the fragrance of
petunias called
and rose
caressing,
to seduce
the one who found
no peace or beauty,
shrugging off the sound
of strange, exotic birds,
it must be me,
his inner voice had said,
who frowns
and listens to the dead,
and not the bumblebee.
.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/insomnia-43/