The Garden Where Words Bloom

In a quiet garden far from noise,
Where hearts find space to speak,
A poet sits without being seen,
Letting silence kiss his cheek.
He plants his thoughts like fragile seeds,
In soil made soft by rain,
He waters them with gentle hope,
And waits without complaint.

The sun arrives with whispered warmth,
Its rays like golden rhyme,
Touching petals, soft as dreams,
Growing verses out of time.
Birds begin to shape a tune,
A chorus mild and deep,
Like metaphors that softly rise
From places poems sleep.

He watches how the flowers grow,
Each color like a phrase,
Each shape a symbol of the soul,
That blossoms through our days.
A red rose blooms like fiery words,
Of passion strong and wild,
While daises speak in simple lines,
As honest as a child.

Lavender hums a quiet note,
A lullaby of peace,
And lilies glow like sacred thoughts,
Where troubled worries cease.
He writes them down as they appear,
Not forcing what they mean,
For poetry is never chased,
It grows where it is seen.

The breeze becomes a storyteller,
Turning pages made of leaves,
Invisible as hidden truth
That only calm perceives.
The branches bend like sentences
That curve without a sound,
And butterflies annotate the air,
Where softer thoughts are found.

He learns that verses do not come
From hurried, restless minds,
But from the hearts that choose to live
With patience of all kinds.
He learns that poetry is food
For those who dare to feel,
It feeds the starving, silent parts
We fear to show as real.

Some days the garden offers storms,
A lightning flash of pain,
Thunder speaks like heavy grief,
And poems bleed like rain.
But still he writes, for storms must pass,
And roots must know the night,
For even darkness has its words
Too deep for sudden light.

And when the morning clears the sky,
New blossoms gently rise,
They carry truth from yesterday,
Embraced by clearer skies.
Their petals soaked in tears now shine
More vivid than before,
They show that broken hearts can bloom
Again, and even more.

The poet learns the power there,
A language born of earth,
Where every sorrow, joy, or loss
Awakens deeper worth.
For poetry is not just ink,
Not merely line or art,
It is the garden grown from seed
Inside a beating heart.

He leaves no name upon the page,
No signature of fame,
For flowers never ask for praise,
Yet bloom without a name.
He lets the words belong to all
Who ever yearned to speak,
To those who hide their tender truths
Behind the masks they keep.

He rises from the quiet bench
As sun prepares to set,
The garden hums like grateful verse,
And none will soon forget.
For in the place where poems bloom,
Where feelings take their form,
Each heart becomes a poet’s hand,
And silence keeps them warm.

So let your thoughts become the seeds,
Your patience be the rain,
Let kindness shine like morning sun
On every joy and pain.
And you will find, within your soul,
A garden soft and true,
Where poetry will bloom in peace,
And every word is you. 🌷✨