Whispers adorn the sky

Chilling winds and dying, breathy voices

The road is a blackboard

With essays of footprints written upon it

The air is still

As are the trees

But the sky is not

The sky talks mindlessly to someone

It murmurs and mutters

Supported by the Earth

Pressured by Space

The sky is home to the brain of a flower

The flower is red

Some say the colour of love

Others claim it to be blood

Is there a difference?

This is what the flower ponders

Surrounded by grey

Just grey

A single spot of love or blood

Accompanied with the silence of the colour

Out of the glass it sees the sky

To many the sky is so big

So vast, so aimless

To the flower, the sky is small

The sky is misunderstood

 

It is weak

It is puny

But it is blue

And the flower likes blue

Dreams are blue, happiness is blue

The flower knows a lot

It knows of grey

Of injustice

Of evil

There is one other thing that the red flower knows

It knows what the sky is whispering

The flower hears the sky over the screams of children playing

Over the tumult of gunfire

Over the dead buzz of grey

The sky talks to everyone

Begging for freedom, for attention

However

No one listens

Not the blackboard road

Not the lingering snow

Nobody apart from a small, red flower

Knows the song of the sky.