in a field of flowers, of thorn hatred roses,
is a little flower seed.
who knows what kind?
it grows to a bud.
green amongst the bloodred, the bloodred with thorns, old,
yet emitting eerie beauty.
but this bud,
with simple,
innocent,
Beauty.
it sits.
it shuns the roses, with its simplicity.
the way it is more free,
the way it has hope,
it might grow into
a daisy, a
tulip, a
crysanthemum.
but once it does grow into whatever it is,
its beauty dies,
it loses simplicity,
the beauty,
it gets shunned by the roses,
until it withers
to the ground,
regretting,
dying, , , ...
Gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
original and nice to read. are you that daisy, tulip, or crysanthemum shunned by the roses, until u wither to the ground, regretting, dying, , , ... Gone.