Honey and its bees

If dust is my extant

I would flow with the wind,

drink the sip of rain

and moisturize in the sun.

I will shield the flower

which grew in my hut

Of mud and bare rusty field. 

Letting the petals fall won't

make my flower wither;

Hosting the autumn fair

would may rent it tears

Yet I will pick the flakes 

Of my yellow crusts  

and pour my existence to 

Its withered layers

Again drinking the sip 

Of sun and rain 

I will make it bloom 

over the seven heavens.