A flower withers,
As a gust of wind blows
And its ruby, red petals
Turn brown and gold.
And one by one,
Each petal falls
Due to the treacherous
Sound of winter's call.

A flower in winter,
The only one that stands,
Is thrashed by the blizzard,
Freezing its tiny, green hands
Its roots clinge to earth
With all their might,
Waiting for all to be calm,
Vulnerable for a ray of sunlight.

The next day,
There is nothing left,
But a broken stem,
Amongst the snow covered plain.
But soon the snow will melt,
The sun will rise,
A new bud is born,
This flower will bloom again.


 
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