The Song of the Unasked Flower

When a flower blooms
it does not ask
to the gray sky
that covers the dusk
or to the wind
that secretly
kisses its petals.
It only sings in silence
like a prayer that is released
without fingers.

On its chest lies
a small universe
pollen like shooting stars
whispering secrets
to bees and time.
It does not care who looks
because beauty is its duty
without conditions
without a name.

Look, how it stands
in the middle of a storm
or in the embrace
of the morning dew
teaching us that life is blooming
without demanding cheers and flattery
without asking for praise in return.

The flower is us
or we should be her—
who understands, that the journey
is the destination itself
that love is present without reason
that existence is light
that does not need witnesses.

Then bloom
like a flower on the edge of
the quiet world
because beauty never asks
who will love it.