Blossom

He was by destiny scarred,

A book whose pages torn away, meaningless,

Lost his mother when born,

Father had scarce means,

Placed him on the steps of a church.

No name he had nor a place in the sun,

But a Gods child he was, and gradually merged into the hilly terrain,

Spoke the language of trees and animals,

Ran as swift as a mountain goat,

No creature he found hostile,

He became Nature's child,

A feral, a boy cub.

Seasons he saw as the people who came to the mountains,

Frivolous and devoid of substance,

Viewed them with the innocence of a wild flower,

Amused at their fears and saw them caged,

In their own small world, not knowing the 

Rapture of the immense Nature,

And the art of God, from the humblest flower,

To the largest animal,

No knowledge he knew but wisdom special was gifted to him,

The wise tall oak often embraced him,

In its bower when it rained,

All the chocolates and desserts,

Scarce compared to the fruits,

Which fell on the ground for him.

But the road of gifted people are often short,

As the flower which blossoms only once,

In a year,

Found was he lying still under a rock,

With the stream cleansing his flesh,

For a soul so pure, that fain can any person decipher,

He passed joyfully with the winds,

And the grave made by few who saw him,

Was covered with beautiful flowers, as a promise Lord gave,

That he shall forever blossom,

And glow in the light of Heaven,

A child of Nature,

Lived a life none could fathom,

A spirit that still flows in the stream,

And talks to the trees,

His blossom all came to behold,

A messiah he became,

Of silent wisdom and pure sunlit soul.