The Ruined Garden

Decolorized, a garden grows 
Less friendly than before. 
Without its lovely red, the rose
Is just a weed with thorns. 

Deprived of green, the grasses cease 
To lap like gentle waves, 

But flutter feebly in the breeze, 
The moldy thatch of graves. 

The fountain that this morning flashed 
And sparkled in the heat, 

Now falls in filthy tatters like 
A fraying winding sheet. 

Even the great white cotton clouds,
So harmless in the light, 
Like ghostly galleons terrorize
The star bombarded night. 

Less kind, but no less beautiful;
Less colorful, but still 
As magical or more without 
The superficial frills.