My Flowers

My flowers,

they don't meet the sun

to get the vitality;

they don't caress the air to show their pure jollity;

My flowers even don't drench,

as water is a wrench.

My flowers do bloom every while,

in joys and pains,

in glory and disdain;

But

they wither, die or swoon,

because they miss the radiant moon!

Only I know why, that, every day they die;

they've no home of their own,

which people call "garden",

they could've danced in rains and picked a fight under the sun-rays.

Sorry, my flowers, pardon me now!

till I find a "home for me",

just bloom in my heart's terrain,

I'll build a home for you,

that'll be called the Eden!