Drooped, Wilted And Dried

I’m scared of the so called Valleys of Tears.
Aren’t there in the valley’s mires, swamps?
I would not like my tears there tolerant ground to find
roots to throw and stay active,
out of Nature’s pity efficacious.
I’ll lead my steps high up to a mountain’s peak.
It’s there where I’ll leave them down tο be shed,
on the steep slopes down to roll,
free to slide, without the pity’s obstacles to hurt me more,
into gorges, ravines, unnoticed there to vanish.
Too many the remorses I felt, no need to be and laught at.
There by my memory kept, to remind me,
every time I raise eyes to the mountains up,
never again to abandon my yard’s flowerbed
neglected, uncared to be drooped, wilted and dried at the end,
the end, the end, the end!