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klarchen
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Lost in the forest,
amongst the rocks and earth,
one will find a lonely flower.
Sunlight deprived,
rain drenched,
it is overshadowed by the trees.
Its life prescribed,
by a gentle hand from above,
it did not ask for its fate.
Bloom, grow up to be lovely, fade
and die.
Bloom, grow up to be exquisite, taper
and die.
Bloom, grow up to be beautiful, wither
and die.
The sun taunts, mocking and teasing with its piercing rays.
The sun's wretched reminder of an outside world offers no comfort.
The rain sustains, beading down fragile delicateness.
The rain's somber song sympathetically offers small comforts.
Once the lonely flower heard steps and a voice.
"How beautiful", said this voice.
And in a fleeting moment of contact, the flower soundlessly pleaded,
"Pick me, please, oh please, pick me!.
For I am dying.
I want to know the tender touch your hand.
I want to know the surface of your limpid skin.
I want to know the sweetness of your lips.
I am dying, please, can't you see? "
The steps diminish and wander off into intangible lands.
Desolateness intrudes like a glacial force,
surging slowly upon everything.
The flower laments,
"Was I not worthy for the touch of his hand?
Was I not pure for the surface of his skin?
Was I not true for the kiss of his
lips?
Or did he not know that I wanted to be picked?".
The lonely flower weeps as the rain sings its somber song,
offering small comforts.
The lonely flower fades as the song slows and the sun trespasses.
The lonely flower dies,
ever so softly succumbing to the earth,
as the song of the rain surrenders to the sun.
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000706
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