The withered flowers,
can only arise from their ashes,
when I can give them back,
to the dark earth.
So, I burry them,
deep within the soil,
for them to rediscover,
the art of true living.
Born from the ashes,
the red rose blooms in the summer,
and from the thorns,
I bleed the same color red.
Belonging
The world fades,
as pink roses bloom.
The bell rings,
and in the distance,
sounds the whistle,
of an old black steam train,
awakening the nostalgia,
like the perfume of roses,
awakens my soul,
in the heart of friendship.
I chime the tower clock,
while the organ plays,
our favorite symphony,
as white doves fly away,
on the warm summer breeze,
that my heart releases,
at the beginning of winter.
The open fire crackles,
wrapping its warmth around me,
like a warm blanket,
on a cozy Sunday afternoon.
The tea in my hands,
smells like cinnamon and apples,
while the hot carrot cake,
lays untouched on my plate.
And as the first snowflakes fall,
I curl up in your arms,
where belonging is the same,
as being home on a cold winter day!
When the rosebuds came in bloom
In an instant,
life disappears.
In flight,
it returns to me.
Searching for rosebuds,
I hold a white pearl in my hand,
but all I find is the bees nectar.
How many magnifiers will bring me back?
The spring is softer,
than the autumn storm.
In each drop,
I see a divine reflection,
while human lives,
haunt me in my dreams.
If acceptation is a short road,
why then have I run for miles?
If I could escape my biggest nightmare,
I could catch the bubbles in the sea.
My road has been too long,
I can feel the angels watching me,
and a million wings strike across my face.
Then at the hand of the Father,
I notice,
that the white pearl in my hand,
has gently changed me,
when the rosebuds came in bloom.
Gineke van Keulen 