Flowers in a field, dancing
day and night—a yearly
ritual where they: roses, tu
lips, camellias red
and white
stand, bow, stir, flutter, whirling in tune with the
gentle music of the wind.
A tarantella of
flora, a promise of
life; moving once, budging
twice, and
fading away as quickly
as they used to sway—
beauty ephemeral.
How can one recreate
the resplendence of a
flower? Golden petals and
silver leaves on a
copper-stained twig—ornate,
crafted splendor. An
enduring imitation
paraded,
flaunted around
to women and men
(too old, but then)
who gaze upon its
ageless elegance. A
charm that dies no more.
But! It dances
not, it cries
not; bees come
not, rabbits care
not. A cold hard blossom.
No he, no she.
Still, men and women (too blind,
too desperate) will worship
regardless.
Time flies. Sand dunes
come, sand dunes
go, the world shifts
endless
ly as autumns fly and winters snow.
The metal flower retains its
charm (that dies
no more)—
tarnished. But that
does not matter
now. Life is easy to
revive—some time, some
money ought, because
maintenance can be always
bought. Women and men (now here, now gone)
look on, hiding, while the monument stays,
stoic, uncaring, snow or sleet;
a lifeless blossom
(that dies no more).
Spring comes; the cold takes its leave, and
yet the metallic stem stands
rigid, the petals unflinching—some discoloring
(and we’ve all learnt to be color blind).
Life goes on. People
walk on. Nothing feels
wrong, and
unnoticed, grass grows;
unnoticed, a flower bud
blooms again, vibrant and
lively, welcomed by none. Perhaps
someday,
somewhere,
somebody will find the
fleeting charm
of a flower,
and so will the winds whisper and passing leaves
wonder: would he forget (and would she
remember)
this beauty ephemeral?
gizgiz
lightninghell
