She blooms secretly in an unflappable graveyard.
And who sympathizes for the immature except a grave-digger?
She dreams of a soft heart butterfly
and stagnates with the dead souls.
Who understands her soft spot, language and the soggy heart?
So-and-so, a hooligan may rest for a while.
After a nightcap, until he gets sober.
Be watchful my dear especially on curfew days.
This is the true nature of the atmosphere and we all are born to decay!
But it’s immaterial; be steady my sibling.
Flowers are not asphalts for the highway limousines.
nimal dunuhinga
