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.