A blurred image of long ago,
This silent sound, an endless echo;
From a distant land a familiar chime,
Stirs deep inside, endless in time.
The dream begins its emotional ride,
Flooding the ground in an endless tide;
It waters the ground with tears so fine
And wraps around the root, as if a vine.
And from the ground a plant does grow,
Born from hatred, and mixed with sorrow;
Nourished by these deceitful smiles,
Cracking the dream that it defiles.
So as the crack begins to spread,
The tendrils of the vine begin to thread;
And through the dream it is refined,
Gently now they become entwined.
Slowly the darkened colours are mixed,
And piece by piece, the mosaic is fixed;
In its centre a flower in full bloom,
Encased, for now, in this fragile tomb.
This portrait now buried in the ground,
An image lost and never to be found;
Until such time that it must break,
It is the path we all must take.
Upon this path, now light but hollow,
We care not whom, we do but follow;
All that goes pass, we never regret,
But kept in the heart, lest we forget.
