They are made with any kind of symbol,
Love, peace, friendship, relationships, and all.
Yet she never received even one before,
And if she ever received one, she demanded it more.
She often sees flowers in death,
White ones given as what they're told, like a myth.
When could she receive a spontaneous wildflower?
When everything that is huge has more power.
She sees others often beam when they get one,
Those bouquets she never wanted from a man.
She sees others often weep when a dead gets many,
Flowers in wooden stands smell like an adieu yet bonny.
Oh, why are they giving more flowers in death bed?
When a person who receives couldn't be any more appreciative.
Oh, why do they give nothing for those alive?
When a person weeps for no one will ever give before she dies.
She does not know if it's the beauty of flowers,
She does not know if it's only their powers.
She does not know if others finally see the value of a dead one,
Or is it only the tradition that makes them do it as a human?
Yet before she learns everything,
She tries to pick flowers and starts believing,
That she does not need anyone to have a giver,
She's the only one that needs to give herself and be gentler.
YOU ARE READING
From The Pages of My Soul
PoesíaA second book of elevated railway of my emotions. Episodes I never knew I could write. Series I was afraid to dive in with words. This is a collection of poetry and prose originally written by my heart.
