We first see it for its buds,
A promise of a beautiful tomorrow.
An ideal world, bathing in passion red
Blooming like sunsets.
When we're old enough
To pick the blooms of our youth's folly,
We'll see our paths blocked
By thorns unruly as we were.
We stumble and fall.
The dreams of our tomorrow
Fade, and fade still
As scarlet blooms on our fingers instead.
When at last, our fingers touch
The petals that have always been
The object of our eyes,
They listlessly fall onto the earth.
Brown petals on the ground--
Dying as they are.
Nourishing the roots
Of the new buds to come.
