O road that winds beyond the dawn,
Take me where my heart is drawn.
Carry my footsteps, one by one,
Through shadows, rain, and silver sun.

I have no temple built of stone,
My prayer is whispered, breathed, alone.
The earth itself, my chapel floor,
The sky is my roof, forevermore.

I walk with colours at my side,
With flowers blooming as my guide.
Each petal speaks in tongues of grace,
Each hue is a hymn in nature’s face.

The poppies flame with scarlet fire,
They burn with restless, bold desire.
They tell me, live while yet you may,
For time is brief and will not stay.

The violets hide where coolness weeps,
They teach me secrets silence keeps.
A lesson whispered soft and low:
The gentlest hearts are first to grow.

The marigolds, in golden bands,
Unfurl like suns in pilgrim hands.
They hum with courage, warmth, and light,
A torch to guard me through the night.

I kneel where lavender has grown,
Its fragrance turns my breath to stone.
It calms my restlessness and fear,
It says: Be still, the truth is near.

The roses climb their thorny spires,
A kingdom built of both wounds and choirs.
They tell me love is sharp and sweet,
A crown of pain, a gift complete.

And daisies, oh, the meadow’s star,
They shine no matter where they are.
Their laughter sprinkles down the earth,
And blesses sorrow into mirth.

So flowers crown the road I take,

A rosary of blooms awake.
Their colours, prayers in shifting light,
Companions through the day and night.
I walk through forests, green as psalms,

Where branches lift their leafy palms.
The air is painted jade and gold,
The silence is stronger than the bold.
A red bird darts across my way,

A spark of courage in the day.
Its feathers blaze, its song is flame,
And I, renewed, am not the same.
By rivers wide, the lilies rest,

 Their white robes shining, ever-blessed.

They sing of purity and peace,
Of burdens gone, of sweet release.
The water hums its endless tune,
A hymn beneath the patient moon.

It carries prayers I cannot speak,
Into the ocean vast and meek.
At dusk, the sky becomes a shrine,
Of painted fire, of wine divine.

The west is crimson, bold and true,
The east is veiled in gentle blue.
The stars then pierce the twilight’s veil,
Like scattered prayers, so small, so frail.

Yet each one glimmers, sure, and deep,
A promise heaven means to keep.
And so I walk through colored lands,
With soil and stone in open hands.

I am no master, no one’s lord,
I seek no throne, no sharp-edged sword.
Instead, I walk, and walking find,
The gentle shaping of the mind.

For every flower on the road,
Becomes a psalm, a secret ode.
The red of poppy, wild, alive—
It tells me how the flames survive.

The blue of the iris, calm and sure,
It says the soul is meant to endure.
The yellow sunflowers lift their eyes,
They pray in silence to the skies.

Their faces turn, their stems grow tall,
They teach me faith, the root of all.
The violet twilight, cool, serene,
Unfolds its wings of dusky sheen.

 It whispers softly: rest, be still,

The journey bends to greater will.
I walk alone, yet never so,
For every colour seems to know.
The rose, the daisy, every hue,

They walk beside me, tried and true.
And in the night, when shadows creep,
And heavy silence falls asleep,
I speak my prayer, not loud, not long,

But steady as the cricket’s song.
O road, O stars, O fields that bloom,
Make space for me, give me your room.
O dawn, O dusk, O endless skies,

Receive my heart, my questions, sighs.
For I am a wanderer, nothing more,
A seeker knocking at each door.
Yet every colour, every flower,

Reveals the truth: the world is ours.
Not to possess, not to command,
But to be woven, hand in hand.
To walk with gentleness and grace,

To leave soft footprints in this place.
So I keep walking, slow, aware,
My prayer is a breath, my breath a prayer.
Through marigold, through poppy flame,

Through violet dusk, through rose’s name.
And if at last my road should cease,
May I lie down in fields of peace.
With daisies round, with skies of blue,

And all the flowers I once knew.
Then let my silence join their song,
A wanderer who walked along.
A prayer not written, but only said,

By colours, flowers, roads I tread.

.    .    .