The Mud and the Statue
I am flailing in the mud.
At last, it seems I am crawling out.
Yet someone pauses
To watch me.
The sun.
But it watches me far too deeply.
It grows hotter and hotter.
At the very moment I am about to emerge from that mire,
I end up turning into a statue.
Someone passing by wonders,
"Why is something sticking out here?"
That something was me,
Yet they step right over it,
And the mud
Grows only harder.
I am no longer even the presence of a statue;
Now invisible,
I have become the very earth itself.
When spring comes, flowers bloom,
But when winter arrives,
The flowers of spring inevitably fall.
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