Flowers in the garden of god,
the aesthetic, elegant mankind,
flourished from one to the other,
an infinity of beauteous nature.
Somewhere, bestrewed with heavy
Leaves of cruelty, sits some flowers,
Covered in Bosky roots of hunger
In the brume of misery,
they ask for nothing,
but a mere question
at odd time,
at odd place,
in odd conditions,
is this life is given or forgotten ?
This injustice of god still prevails,
they need much but never given,
How cruel of creation?