Wed, 10/31/2018 - 20:04 -- am.raz

I'd trade all my dollars

to plant flowers and trees

in a world where money

has become a disease.

Your savings determine

how much love you receive

but roses, my dear,

they bloom for free.

And when winter comes

they don't complain;

petals fall but roots remain.

They welcome the weather

the storms, rough with rain

strengthen their veins.

Like glass falling from the sky,

Tragically beautiful is the sun as it cries.

Tragically beautiful is this world as it dies.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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