We perceive it in our minds - an idea, the fragrance of choices. Our generation is blooming, covering the sky. Our feet rooted, soaked in sweat and blood, our songs - the bark on our tree.
Winds from Gaddafi's fighter jets move our branches, but we remain resolute in this free Libyan soil. We desire Spring for our children, warm democratic rays.
Mercenaries see us as kindling, the West eye our sap, neighbors pray this regional storm won't make their forests dance. But the seasons are changing. It is our time.
Photo: Dogwood or Cherry tree taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Blanko Noir)
