Flower, flower, hanging on the tree,
Branches weep softly, burning like a fire, wanting to be free.
Unhurriedly a breeze carries its silent plea,
While blood drops fall and embellish leaves so humanely.
Life fades swiftly, like a mumbled breath in the dense of the night,
Blown away softly, lost from sight.
Cries soak the roots, where shadows of death are intertwined,
like a seed singing of sorrow in the earth’s darkest design.
Darkness spills into the abyss,
but the sunlight dries blood tears on the ground.
Yet the spirit of the flower, in freedom, death is found.
The branches may mourn and the leaves may decay,
In the heart of the tree, the flower finds its way.
So let the wind carry both triumph and despair,
For life’s brief moments are precious and rare.
In the final stage of defiance of the flower, a lesson we see-
That even in despair and sorrow, the spirit can be free.