The sunflower adores the sun.
It follows its path from east to west,
wearing the same bright yellow clothes.
It does not know if the sun loves it back,
yet its devotion is unconditional.
It basks in the warmth of rays that touch its face.
On cloudy days when the sun hides,
the sunflower waits—patient, eastward,
hoping against hope.
Sadness comes with absence,
but still it waits.
Its love is pure, asking nothing more
than presence,
than the gentle caress of light.
