Sometimes I wonder how a tree that flowers at night would feel. As the entire world wakes up to a new morning, the poor tree has to see each of its flowers falling. As the trees around it bloom upon the brandishes of the bright sun, these trees, bereft of their flowers, languish in their nudity. How often they might cry little dew drops upon the ground where their pretty flowers lie to be stamped upon by civilization?

One that blooms in the darkness

'What of me?', said the shiuli
to the Lord.
Blooming alone  in the darkest
of silence.
'Who will hold his breath,
while his eyes marvel my depth?'
'Who will sigh a sigh,
and smile without a why?'
'Who will let his face,
reflect my radiance?', she says.
'Who will?'


'Who will come and sit by me,
in the death of each hour?
And as the black engulfs everything,
blinding my very soul,
Who will come and stroke my boughs?
Or caress the petals of my dying flowers-
as they cling precariously for 
their last leap?
When the Sun will come marching,
glamorously banishing the darkness,
Who will console me, for my little flowers
that now lie lifeless on the floor that feeds me?
Who will?'