What?

This loss of gloom,

Makes not flowers bloom,

Has been followed by happiness,

And much before that, contentment,

But at least that much was beneficial,

Albeit inconvenient, withering the reserves,

A thin fragrance of the path's memory.

The fruits have depleted, stomped to perfection,

No more turning back, no more going forward,

Without a miracle, a miracle indeed,

The name of which, always has been Love.

Why?

This consciousness is our boon,
The same is our curse,
Making us look inside too much,
Ignorant of shining stars.
What if it wasn't there?
Like animals we would live and perish,
And just as happy as them.
Or better yet to be lost since start,
No chance of redemption, for no sin committed,
Matter mixed in proportions,
Random patterns of beauty,
No vile eyes or heart, to gaze upon the land and skies,
Cold world, brilliant sun, stark snow,
For as far as you can see,
Untainted by our deeds,
The wretched fools sentenced to doom,
A leisurely walk of souls together,
Where do flowers only bloom?