What murders we commit with secateurs
to captivate our objects of desire.
When blooms are cut an inner death occurs;
we stem the flow of sap, and quench the fire.
If angels' wings are clipped, they cease to fly;
our flowers, too, will wilt and colours fade,
when severed from the roots they're nourished by.
That kind of love is just a masquerade.
The blossoming of love is best enjoyed
when it's allowed to grow, from seed to seed,
for nature's precious cycle is destroyed
when youth alone is plucked, to sate our greed.
You'll find there's more to love than meets the eye;
the plant itself needs nurture, lest it die.
|
