Part III

(The Flower’s Grief)

The sky still opens.
The rain still falls.
But nothing comes.
No wings, no call.

My roots hold firm, though the soil decays,
starved of the dance that once gave praise.
I bloom with aching memory…
offering colour to a vanished creed.

They’ve gone, the ones who crowned the spring,
lost to poison, silence, spell, or sting.
And yet I bloom.
And yet I bleed.
Because I remember what we were made to be.