If I don’t write my story, who will?
None capable can describe me, a daffodil,
From afar and close, an ordinary being,
Yet another flower in the forest, dense and deep.
But I wish to tell you about my toils,
as I gasped for breath with the first rays of the Sun,
How I blossomed when they fell upon me,
How I shed and drooped with the rains.
Once in a while a reveler came by and stopped,
Touched me, often plucked my petals,
Toddlers, one too many, giggled at me,
With every passer I became more and more ordinary.
Pride engulfed me, I refused to believe,
That I was ordinary, or anyone could describe me,
Me alone felt most beautiful,
Yet very lonely in my idyllic existence
I retired into desperation, along thousands like me,
Unable to describe me, or accept me written about,
When a poet came by in his absent mindedness,
And humbled me, us, with his brilliance.
Since that day I greet the passersby,
Like me, most of them can just see me and gasp,
I pity myself and them, at their innocent inability,
And rely and accept how a bard described me.
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