A flower has grown up in the street, between the ripped sidewalk and the asphalt. It isn't pretty, in fact, it is just simple, weak, that could be torn with a mere press of fingers, but still, a flower, delicate within the weeds, wrecking the concrete finding freedom and life and spontaneously in what is faded to remain and still lifeless.
That light purple petals managed to find light, life, sun in where it isn't welcome. But that simple and weak flower find its roots under the chemical made rocks. In your simple and humble existence, it unveils the grace of what create and connect us all encircling and finding a way within us.
A figure of our strength is overthrow with its delicateness, an underestimate token in every form to record the yielding of its lethal royalty.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well articulated and nicely penned with conviction. An insightful creation, very philosophical. Thanks for sharing, Pamella.