The golden flower wakes to rise
from its rocky mattress, meets
the passersby who lost their bliss
taking disenchantment's path
and whispers secrets (kept too late)
of fascination, faith, and fate:

"Beware the woods, their welcoming.
Believe there is no reddest rose.
Destination is not doom.
Seek magic in reality.
Those willows weep as crocodiles.
A star will guide as well beguile."

Accepting flowers have a voice,
inspired listeners stand a chance
to break their trance, observe delights
beyond disillusion's flights
from fantastic truths, romance.
A choice to make: deject, rejoice.