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Like the dew which collects on the lips of the budding flowers
so does the innocence of those we love.
Coming with the seasons, underneath it's wings we can
see its offspring.
From the mother do come her children, each having their own lives,
each with it's own story.
Yet somewhere in the tales a concoction does form.
Mingling are the feelings and hardships, creating that which does make one
wonder.
O! The many times I have held my breath to hear that of others, to marvel,
to be humbled by the breath of my brethren.
Only that which we live by, these necessities, do break its silence
it is here, here where the experience and the rapture and pain of life's
temptations,
here is where the innocence is tainted.
Here is where my loves stain, where the dew of the flowers stops shining.
That flower, with pedals of velvet and silk, it's hushed now.
The colors it boasted turn dark.
Yet my lips part slightly, and I smile,
and I pluck the violet flower from the Earth,
to share it's unspoken beauty with the world.