A streaking red sky is rare in my eyes,
As is a bird—fluttering, in full bloom.
But the rarest sight perceived in my mind,
Was the time my eyes fell upon you.
I was a tumbleweed, drifting away,
Deserting a dream for Sahara's slow death.
You were a red roseling, fit for a bouquet,
Giving life to those who have but one breath.
Maybe it was luck, perhaps destiny.
—Or, was there no logic in the instant,
When whistling winds—whipped! me close to thee.
—Lo, feelings of love no longer distant.
As long as birds dance to swaying trees,
The rarest of stories our love shall be.