A bud! What joy! Fulfillment of life’s purpose.
The never ending circle of life and death and life.
The bud is resolute.
Clinging fast to the branch; neither growing nor shriveling.
Is she opening? Is there a hint of pink under that brown shell?
But no. The promising pink is tinged with brown, and wrinkled.
Next evening she is lying on the soil of the pot.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem