Arise

The fresh buds are watered by the sun,
raised by the sunlit air,
so that no little stem will be left bare,
not while in her care.
You will begin to see her delicate creatures everywhere,
even the blind are not unaware,
if the beauty outruns the eye, then the nose will surely catch to the musk clung air.

They will increasingly grow in beauty and size,
more awe in the eyes, the more they rise.
For beauty is just a disguise,
with all the high pitched replies,
have  they forgotten what happens to big buds when rivers fall out the skies?
Have they forgotten what happens after spring when the futile land dries?

The sun heats up their cradles,
the sun leaves nothing behind,
the sun leaves nothing to find, but the cracked, yellow teeth of the Earth.
The plants cry for the rain of their birth,
but when water leaks they break their heads from above,
breaking all their love.

Fallen by what made them stand,
how could they not understand?
How could they reject the seasons, the skies,
because of their size and succulent, colored lies?
Surely what is to come will definitely arise.