Not a desert
Not a jungle
Not a forest
Life is a garden.
The wind
With little birds
Brings seeds
That paints the earth.
Most just fly away.
Many become grass.
Some become plagues.
Few, very few,
Become flowers.
These tiny creatures
They hide all the light
With purity, beauty
Love and care
They flourish
Slowly
And paint life.
I fight for these,
Even if a single,
Flower,
Against the world,
Against any world.
If the wind is heavy,
With my fingers,
I will cut it
Into little whispers
Of Heavenly clouds.
If the winter comes in,
Big eater I am,
I eat all the ice
Store in my mechanic belly
Make ice cream for the summer.
If Zeus attacks,
I'll take my whole,
My metallic whole,
And I'll guard them.
No thunder comes through.
Sometimes, however,
My footsteps are big,
My words are harsh,
They scratch the petals,
It makes a flower cry,
It makes me cry.
The flowers, I still protect.
I pray the sun shall return.
I drench myself with light,
Fill metallic arms and words
With beautiful, soft
Yielding cotton.
I breathe, hold peace, and
Open the tubes
Give all my amber
A scratched flower might need
As from a flower itself
You start a tree.