Stranded in a scenic unknown, collided in a cryptic memory,
of earthy whiff and drenched grassland
in a vicinity of a coastline;
I wrote a poetry, which the wind hated,
because mine spoke about tangible beauty
and it had always wanted to be one;
a daffodil was blooming
while camellias were dying,
see, some tangible beauty cannot coexist, I explained,
but it insisted to materialize
and ergo, the clouds were forming
carrying thunderstorms and hails, thus
people were scared and
fled the meadow hastily;
the wind, the air, they triumphed,
but unloved and unwanted did they feel,
in exchange for dominion.