Glimpsed roses at a roadside stall: so bright
a contrast to the city's traffic haze,
rich with the peace and warmth of summer’s days
and quiet reveries of dark and light;
seen only for a moment -- there, then gone.
Such wistful beauty, such a brave display,
stands out against the drabness of the day,
confirming even here our dreams live on.
But wayside seller, looking at your face,
I see your flowers are only goods to sell
with no innate significance. Ah well,
there’s little value in the commonplace.
Still I wonder, trapped within life’s schemes
and compromises, did you sell your dreams?