What a life,
life which you can’t guess.
Life which blooms from veils,
of the morning light.
The colour, the texture shows purity.
They shed their petals wide open,
for each flower is not just a flower.
But souls, and something far more precious than jewels.
Their song cannot be heard,
for it’s locked within.
Nor can the bird sing it,
out of it’s sweet voice.
For the colour,
every moment it takes,
every butterfly drawn towards it,
and the air it breathes,
is something else.
But do all such delicate things be so complex?
Wonder draws you to a door.
A door covered by roses.
And carved by veins.
The key to it is not in your brain and nor is it in your heart.
Finding the key will draw you to immense danger.
Youthful hearts are the first victims.
Unless there is a medicine,
that is not to wonder into the world of roses,
as it’s just a rose garden,
covered in thorns.
- Diyaana Subasinghe