Ariba Anar
Look how it blooms on crooky branch,
Fair And white despite their grudge,
Though leaves choose to abandon,
Fair little bees play their violen.
Why not red, yellow or pink,
Isn't white for the prink,
Thundering blue should be perfect,
Says a passerby of regret.
Yet chooses her soul with firmness,
Wings of Dove in the wind,
Her enlightened spirit harness,
Vow's to stay unchanged.
Won't role down for their Curse,
Thousand tongue may remorse,
His greatest creation, she say,
Love, hate, it's his hand I portray,
Then I woke up beneath the tree.
