Silent as the desert night
The cacti stood alone,
Wading through the sands of children,
Placed in grains unknown,
It longed for other cacti
Though alone in its beliefs,
With nothing to console in
Nothing to share its grief,
It then ripped all its thorns from off its side,
And whispered to the sun
Please give me a companion,
Bless me with another one.
It waited for the suns reply
But nothing hastily came,
So it pulled out all its buds
And turned them into paint,
Used it's only spot of water
Writing letters to the saints,
But they did not listen
and the paint spilt on the ground,
With last drops still aglisten
The cacti hung its head
And watched the wasted words and water dry,
In the desert of the dead.
But look, the sun said gently
In the midst of this despair
The word that you have written,
To me,
are beauty beyond compare,
No saint may ever read them
But have no doubt that I do care,
The cacti too, then saw its marvel,
And picked back up its thorns,
Keep writing with your colors
spoke the sun,
For in you an art is born
And I will write you from the sky
Down there,

Alone you may be but
Do not let your passion die,

So the cacti, though still apart

Found pleasure in this verbal color

And thus was satisfied at heart,



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