Not All Can Appreciate

I gazed up the sky with a keen smile of eagerness. The clouds danced in a rhythm that can dance to a balladeer’s sweet songs of praise. With a quick smirk in the eye was the sun close by, with sunshine that blossomed the happiness in the life down below. As I laid my back on the nature-scented jade grass field, I was uplifted, like an angel with wings of might. I was a feather, a withered feather revitalized. And when I reached the clouds in the spring sky, I was lost. My world turned dark; I was not a quill, not a plume, not a spine.

Raindrops cried on my shoulders, tears rolled down from my eyes. It was a raindrop, a jewelled teardrop falling from the sky that seemed unworthy of worship. The ambience, then oh so holy with glee and bliss like a baby in her mother’s safe arms, was now a downpour of what appeared vicious and revolting. But when I rested my cheeks on the damp earth, I saw a flower that seemed dying of old age with no marks of pleasurable tranquillity. And the touch of sweet caress from the miserable deluge sprang it back to life. I said to myself, “I’ve witnessed the miracles life.” Not all can appreciate.

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