Optimistically
Don't meadows soften the uneven routes?
Don't rugged trees have within them sweet fruits?
Aren't wavy seas engulfed by endless shores?
Doesn't truth shield the cores of mores?
My inner shrine has secret sacred zones.
Stumbling blocks could be used as stepping stones.
Thorny paths can turn into floral beds.
To till my soil of soul, I feel no threats.
Monsoons amalgamate with moist rainbows.
Doesn't each soul have silent volcanoes?
Pearls of optimism are splendidly spread.
Picking them, with faith, I must go ahead.
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