I lived in a boundless field
that was dotted with colorful flowers.
They grew, they swayed, they opened for Sun,
but above all they had a dialect.
Their words were whispered into the wind
and caught by the next weakest flower.
Then that flower swallowed the message
and tried to embody its essence.
The rest of the flowers stared in surveillance
and grew eager to join in.
They pruned, they starved, they took in more Sun,
because they wanted to look like everyone.
But misery swallowed them and soon they wilted
and a drought came to kill them off.
Now the color is gone and the field is alone,
waiting for its next sad companions.
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