we are on this world like flowers

delicate or less sensitive

less or more Ia snng - but all

singular and fleeting...

we are numerous, varied, seemingly everlasting

growing, developing, spreading - flourishing

we need a lot of light to live and countless other things

but all this does not help

there comes a time when we dry out...

we wither - leaving this world, vanishing

slowly and separately we depart from scenary

forsaking our loved ones (and maybe our enemies?)

causing pain and an irreplaceable void

without us they also change, fit less the scenery

other flowers can be planted - but the aroma and the decor

of those that disappeared stay in memory - does not return

sad without them - people cry

they cry even when they are silent

they search, reminisce -

we are all like flowers beautiful, rare

always dear to someone, attached to someone

dependent from somebody

tied with someone

awful when we fade away