On Sunday I went to pick flowers
In a mountain glade, beside a trickling stream
When the sun went down in a riot of colours
Purple, red, and gold bursts out of its seams
Like coloured sand in a toddler’s hands;
It reminded me of life.

If life is but a burning star
Then sunrises are its beginning
And in a spectacle of shimmering haze it ends;
What remains between is our tale
Of memories made and lost
Both of which bind our stories with the great tapestry of the world.

When in joy our skies turn golden
A tranquil glow which feels unending
The praises of newfound friends is sweet
Like ambrosia from Ganymede’s chalice
We forget there is but hurt too
Waiting for us beyond the threshold.

Purple is our bruised heart
Scorned or misconstrued
The very friends you held so close
Have impaled you with naught more than words
Time feels like it has stilled in joyless gloom
But even that too passes one day.

With the coming of love the skies turn red
The eternal colour of ardour, and the
Herald of blissful times that makes your forget the world
Yet the fever of passion cannot sustain
A lifetime of enduring companionship
Hardly it is a fable, the toughest thing to keep.

Don’t you see how nothing stays
There is not a place that’ll keep you forever?
Greater the joy, greater the pain
For glory one at times gives up love
So why hold on to bitterness
In this fleeting space between now and then?

Life is but a beautiful dream
Never a lie, never that
We are what we make of it
The choice of memory is ours to yield
Let it fade what ought to fade
Oblivion is sometimes better.

When gentle Death comes for me
His brow laden with a poppy wreath
I’ll bequeath all my tales to him
Let him kiss me on the lips;
My spirit soars high in vespertine
I am an ethereal being of pure love.

I lay beside that mountain spring
Watching the clouds turn blue
The flowers are strewn on the ground
Overflowing from my bower
The sharp edges of reminiscence had dulled
As my mind found peace on that Sunday walk.

~•~