The onlooker had something to say,
about the yellowness of the tulip
and the unbroken dew drop
on the lotus floating by

I flowered beside,
not more distinguished than any,
my sprouts, born with a name
not known, to admirers, many
 
My tiny florets blossomed,
each day the sun’s rays, graced earth
and showers moistened its soil.
I relished in my creations;
 
Until the day, I withered away,
when my roots left the soil
not charred in negligence
but in content, of living.