In dark or in light, flowers are crushed…
Trodden and extracted by the monsters of lust.
No gratitude, no humanity for the flowers so little,
What makes them so vile? It’s still a riddle.
Innocent flowers… So easily they trust,
Get trapped among them, chastened with thrust.
The fiery black hands block their painful screams,
Quietly exploiting and tearing the delicate seam.
The black masked monsters blows off the candle,
The pained soul shivering, carving for a cradle.
But no one responds to the burnt-shattered cries,
Laying there on the cold ground, her dreams and hopes die.
Like a glimmer appears the angel of death by her side,
Caressing her wounds, mourning on her stolen pride.
On observing the inhuman practises on earth-
Decides the Angel of Death…
Death promises to take her to a safe place and painlessly takes away her breath.