The Being to be hold

‎The little wanderer crawled on the earth ‎A living world bloomed within him after his birth ‎Radiant and alone like the sun ‎A dream has just begun ‎Long paths held no claim on his heart ‎The presence is the purest art ‎ ‎Now the little wanderer will run on his feet ‎His steps will crush every grain of the land ‎The tender roots of flowers will burn by his fleet ‎The lonely sun will be surrounded by stars in the sand

The paths stare at him—he is cursed to walk

That little palm, where the shadow of his world once nested ‎A dream once lost in dreams was vested ‎He cried in unfamiliar laps ‎The small flower has grown poisonous thorns in its wraps

The echo of giggles no longer reaches the butterflies

The garden’s presence has turned to ash ‎Wings of butterflies have been torn and scattered ‎He gazes at those moments of slash ‎The song of their flight and all the beauty was shattered ‎ ‎The shadow once in his palm now floats forever in the garden’s river ‎The garden is lost forever ‎He runs, chasing the lost fragrance of the garden ‎His steps crush the dried blooms they scream of his burden ‎He smiles returns to his little world holds nothing ‎The fire in his breath burns everything.  ‎The little wanderer is frightened and runs far away ‎He lost in flow and walked away ‎