By the roadside I saw a blushing flower amongst
arrogant, working class weed. It suffered greatly
this delicate bloom which could inspire a poet
to write about the richness of nature if only bloody
weed would stop being so obtrusive.
I picked the flower, rude, gray weed applauded,
in their world of harshness, beauty was strength.
And now that I have changed from being an angry
old man to a gentle soul, I put the flower in a vase
and saw it die of loneliness.
Next day I stopped my car at the same spot, I
ignored the blaring horns of angry drivers. And
the weed said: “why did you do this to us, we need
a soft soul amongst us even when we make fun
of its bloom, but we need the love it creates.”
