The delicate flower,
grows atop the shallow hill.
Brings up the blossom,
yet drops afterward.
How can such beauty,
wish to fall so lowly.
The hills laugh,
and the flower is left to die.
Seeing the horizon,
is the only thing done.
The flower sees its last,
yet attempts to rise.
From that power,
came the blossom.
The hills are silent,
and the flower is reborn.
LeeShin Community Member 
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