Frightful flower, with what vehemence do you dare not to grow?

Is it oft that the sun does now shine in your favor,

Pouring down upon you its glimmering golden vessel of all life?

Does not your patch of soil provision all the food and drink to be had at your hearts content?

When the jovial skies, in a frenzied deluge of manic bear upon the earth

A sleet of iridescent tears,

Do you not emerge yourself the better, endowed with the vigor of a penitent having performed the nights sacred ablutions?

Have you stopped to consider your opulent dress of velvet so fine the highest royals seek it, and blues and reds so bright the finest painter contemplates it?

Perhaps familiarity has robbed you of your very scent,

Fragrant as the honey of the sweetest bees.

Is there a thing for which you truly want,

that has not been ordained to you in the cosmic order of life?

I think it not that you may have encountered an existence more immutable than your own.