The Fallen Beauty
After the great display
Myriads of petals from the trees
Are scattered on the soil around the trunk
And spill over to the side walk
Only to be dried by the wind
And trampled by the passer byes
Tiny flowers
Cannot complain or cry
Or ask for a shelter or water in hot summer
Only path forward is to be crumpled
And become part of the dust
That rises with each footstep.
((*.*))
July 6, 2009 |