During a spring midnight,

A gust of storm emerged,

From the tall teaks trees that bend,

Towards one side together,

After a boyish tussle with the storm.   

It is interchangeably warm and cold,

Also both ominous and exhilarating,

As he sometimes ruffles the flowers,

To scatter their pollens for propagation.

And also flares the forest fires,

Asserting the rage of nature. 

I wish to talk about,  

This strange sorcery on our earth,  

Where both fire and flowers exist.

And death and poems cohabitate.  

He calms down towards the dawn,

And rests as a cool wind,

On the patches of happiness,

Made by the early sun rays.  

There he writes the calligraphy of joy,

Among flowers and sleepy foliage.

Reminding that one has to adapt,

To his or her habitat,

For living a wise, virtuous, and wild life.