Reaching, stretching towards the sun,
the weed thinks its the only one
that feels the need to exist and go on
even though the world around it has changed
between the destruction of cities
where all that remains
are the piles of rubble, concrete and beams,
and the air that's so much sweeter and clean.
Reaching, stretching towards the sky,
without the sense to question why
it has to survive and continue to grow
when its tired and beaten,
ripped and torn,
not knowing or caring when or if
it was born, like the other trees
standing close by,
all doing their best to touch the sky.
Reaching, stretching towards the light,
the rose just won't give up the fight
to bloom just once, maybe more,
so God and man can be graced
with its form and beauty,
and calmed by its scent,
none of which would ever have been
without the intervention of both.
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