thousands of precious little ones
picked from their rosebeds
by the selective fingers with a casual eye
even the plebeian beauties are unsafe
with death as fickle as a curious child
and their colors vibrant and lovely
a bouquet for the angels
in a vase with dancing light
even the strongest flower dies.
a child for a child, some weird karma;
orphaned parents look for any reason
even the worst of all the lies
plucked from the earth for a funeral, how bitter!
singing a soulsong for the strange winter
their whyful cries into the wind
sadness in the empty places;
the flowers do not see us,
nor we they.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this poem very much - the symmetry of its presentation on the page is pleasing to the eye - it flows so smoothly and the language too flows effortlessly - If I'm reading it correctly, you are questioning the custom of collecting flowers for a bouquet because that transient display of beauty kills every flower in it - we kill without thinking but when one of our own dies we are possessed by grief, never acknowledging, or even realizing that we too are killers of the flower's life.