They sneak in everyday morning, plastic bags in hand
In their day lives they are fathers, mothers, sons or daugthers
But they work with the precision seen only in pros
When they approach the flowery boughs
With the deftness of a gymnast they lean over
Plucking flowers with one hand and bagging them with the other
They occasionally look over their shoulders with tact
To see if anyone caught them in the act
These flower thieves come in all sizes and shapes
Some are fair, some are dark, some fat and some are thin
Some are smug, some are sad, oh there are others with a sinful grin
The flowers resist the dastard act with all their might
But with all the tugging and plucking its a pitiful sight
Once the collection is done and the bag is full
They move on with their bounties to lay them at some altar
What an irony, a murderous act is done in the name of God
The flowers are cut, blossoms, buds all alike
The beauty of another morning destroyed with vengence
The trees and bushes sawy to the wind as if in protest
The same wind that should have carried the frangrance
Moves on disappointed yet again, wondering why
Man wants to posses and make his, all that is beautiful
I move on with the wind and start running again
Wishing to find a beauty untouched
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