Such simple weeds these dandelions
without merit who are they to grow,
alongside such fair blossoms
illusory beauty which they show.
But regarded with repulsion
a disgrace to a gardner’s eyes
living in this deceitful world
no consolation shall they find.
Plucking all the tainted roots
in aims of annihilation
for all insignificant impurities
tis the gardner’s greedy ambition.
Forever wallowing in an empty void
the dandelion has no say nor care.
The reaper grimly whispers,
your destiny lies in there.
Yet death never did arrive
for was born the wind
and as the last dandelion bent in sorrow
she sang a song for him.
With only but a single breathe
Is all she need to draw.
The forceful gust set free its pain
and sent his seeds afar.
She painted the grassy hillsides
with nothing but her love.
A sanctum for the dandelions
unencumbered by the gardner’s glove
to which cannot destroy no more
as long as she does sing.
Infinitely her breathe draws on
beneath their withered wings.