I am not like the roses in their garden made to be loved.

I am unlike anything that's born to be admired.

I am simply a wildflower,
Unnamed and unknown,
Born to be ignored.

But at least unlike the roses in their garden,
I wouldn't at least be taken from my home,
I wouldn't at least have to bear the pain of separation,
I wouldn't have to be offered and sacrificed and then removed the other day from the very altar that should have been blessed by my fragrance.

I am at the least glad,
I am living at last,
Even in vain,
Enjoying the little breezes and their mischiefs,
Enjoying the rain that graced my hands,
Enjoying the storm that dared my fate.