A lotus bloomed over a puddle
Glistening in the morning sun.
A cheer to the shepard
and to the maiden alike,
While the fisherman pondered on.
A lesser plant, never seen,
A strangled seed never green,
Another lotus born together
But never deserving any cheer.
What makes one a lotus
What strangles the seed unborn
What of the broken weed
Which shall only get a scorn.
Is it the puddle’s devious design
Or the perseverance of the lotus fine
Or the divisive eye of the human
That a lotus blooms
While the weed is kraken
If the beholder constructs beauty
Then isnt the puddle too in his mind?
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