The blooming of a flower,
Within the thorns in the bush
Displays the design of nature.
But when the flower was mature,
A hideous hand from nowhere came,
Thrashing upon the flower,
Mashed all the source of essence,
Left it on the dust as a downtrodden,
To be unnoticed by self and the maker.
The curse befell on the flower,
For its bloom and for the color,
Respite the thorns around,
It could not protect itself.
Why pity the flower?
For the destiny has a perfect plan,
To be destined thus!