A flower once bloomed of sunset hue, golden with youthful potential, rosy with hopes, dreams, ambitions. To the east a red sun burned fields of violet and green, until they were no more but ash and embers. In pity or in fear, the earth released the flower from her soft embrace, and beckoned the wind to carry the child far, far away, to a land where she would be poor, trampled, but safe from blood-red fire. The wind died on a distant shore, and the flower was alone. Her petals were dull in colour now, their edges torn, but she lay gazing at the open water in search of the wind whose silence mirrored her own emptiness. Rain began to fall just as she began to wonder whether flowers could weep.
Note: Before we deem another as hopelessly bitter, before we frown and think, “Why can’t they look on the bright side?” do keep in mind that tragedy befalls more people than we can ever know, and some may never recover from that fateful blow.