' To create a little flower is the labour of ages.' (William Blake)
O a little, winter flower may seem
Insignificant in terms of the grand
Scheme of things. Yet it is content. It dreams
Not of impossible things. It understands
Its role here on earth. Unlike many here,
Who change like the wind, it is rooted in
Its own soil. It sleeps and wakes without fear.
It is not concerned with virtue or sin.
It's not entangled in the web of words.
Rather, it's simply intent on adding
A little beauty to an ugly world.
And that, in itself, is a precious thing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely thoughtful poem. Indeed little things mean a lot.