Virtue washed away by a blood-diluted tide.
A drop of sin, dissolved, cannot be distilled.
And still, one sees a mirage of virtue from the haze of fear.
But impure water cannot be distilled.

The person you are
If moulded by previous experiences
Will die indefinitely the same
Indifferent to change

The present marches on a straight line
Delusional by unclear skies,
Believes in free will
And the power to create

I met a man, a gardener,
Who told of an auspicious seed.
He worked the seed, carefully
Its flower never seen.

The villagers would glance at him,
In times when things were looking dim
His ambitious eyes and sallowed skin
Reminded them to not give in.

When his work-struck shoulder stiffened,
strained back outed,
He still worked his seed.
And it never sprouted.

Until one off-beat Thursday morn,
the man did not get out of bed.
He passed away that fateful night,
The patch was left an empty stead.

The village gathered for the mass
A crowd with eyes of glass,
They stood and spoke, with admiration,
Of his hard-laboured inspiration - unforgotten.

Outside the Church, in the man's humble patch,
A seed sprouted, flourished - hatched:

Eden would have paled to see
The tree that came from this mere seed,
Hard work and dedication-
A tribute to his legacy.