BLOOM

 I like to bloom on the coffin of a 

 Shellshocked soldier, who died by the monsters so rudely 

On the border of my country. 

I like to bloom in the vases of the patients 

Lonely room, waiting for the dusk 

And counting the last days on the fingertips. 

I like to bloom to be colourful in the 

Faded life of a widow, again prostitute's 

Silent cry, where life is a death sentence 

Compulsion; live or die. 

I like to bloom to protect sweet Shella's smile 

Who was haunted by her own and was destroyed 

By the ugly devils on the dark lonely street.

 

I like to bloom to inspire besides the death bed of a poet, 

In the scientist’s self-made prison, 

A philosopher’s platonic thought 

And the artist’s cheerful face. 

I like to bloom to pretty tribal girl’s hair 

In the drawing book of a cheeky child, 

Orphan's hungry eyes and losers beating hearts. 

Let me be redder and redder with brutes, 

Barbarian's blood. Under the glamorous gown 

I store tortured tears, 

Fire of anger and hemlock’s bluish bud. 

Flowers never bloom to enjoy the tender touch of bees, 

To chuckle at the millionaire’s lavish lounge, 

Nor like to wait for their fate 

On silent God’s feet.