Coming out from the very bottom
Of the low-lying snowed up valley,
This sapling of the wild plum tree,
Still absolutely naked, but goes out
Of its way to bloom to full to be
A herald of the upcoming spring.
Its ambitious thoughts
And aspirations
Are a pure upward desire
For perfection,
Like the vivifying seeds,
Wing it up to its prospect
Of being the number one
Among still frost-bound trees.
It's like a sort of Prometheus
Who knows only one way
Of reaching out towards the sun
And who, like an uprooted plant,
Lends himself to his reckless act
Achieving illusory fame.
Thus, blooming up with lack
For common sense,
It however strives to flower,
No matter what they say,
Showing its bloody reddish
Mother Nature's marks
On indifferent face
Of the dead-white sight.
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