They rise Today; all the flowers
bring whistles to my ears,
About this coming day of fall.
how is it they find surrender? ,
Or cherish warm remanence,
Of this cold December?
Wishing spring in times for burning, their rise bliss in returns back,
To find me, reckless.
They rise,
Like magic,
thirty- one thousand petals,
Mesmerizing in fire,
The risen words there by
Turning on like busting wood,
That gave birth to Venus.
Is it a place for nymph?
To come born out from the wood,
Of the living tree who never dies,
To brought us life?
It is a place for nymphs,
To shame out of all flowers,
And still, find us Speechless .....
©Michale Poppler