The Earth asks not,
From where the seeds come.
The fruits hide the secrets well,
And the flowers don’t tell.
So it came to be, that every Spring,
The ground’s bosom swells,
And the ancient trees of old,
The Earth would hold, future seed-hold.
These ancient trees of old,
Sweet smell of summer,
Warmth of winter,
Gave flowers two;red and yellow.
The red, glowing hot, called to command,
The blood in veins of all that’s earthbound.
The yellow, sunny warm, sought to infuse,
Its flow; in the core of all dreaming hearts.
Hence, blessed were the Red ones.
By the strength of their spirits, stand all
And blessed were the Yellows.
As it gave all, their purpose.
Such, were the ancient trees of old.
In its shadows wise birds told,
The stories of the sevenfold world;
And below. A universal stage of age old dramas.
And yet, in the years of the confluence,
Cosmic will shakes, wakes from slumber.
The ancient trees, choose to withhold its flowers.
As the days go dark, numb nights grow number.
Cold and careless, the frost of that spring.
Buries the seed in a capsule of time
The ancients retreat, birds of wisdom left lone.
To witness the snow. The only thing that now shines.
Then twists and turns. Precision of a clock.
The laws that changed all, must change again.
The birds in their nest of red and yellow,
Holds the author, to the promise of a happy ending.
One day of the dream, the frost will melt.
Spring shall break out free.
And the ancient trees of old, will rise to behold,
In their hearts is born, a seed.