Hawthorn

Slow down your invasive and imperious whispers,
Like the hawthorns at the winter.
They can see your teeth chattering from winter frostiness and trivial matters.
Despite their prudent cores,
They have experience dealing with those matters seriatim.
Gentle white blossom is breaking the rules of the martyred flowers,
Yet giving them enough space for their vanity.
Sadness of the hawthorn is red at autumn,
It is weighing their branches down to caress dirt,
And it's longing for different roots instead of its own.
Little motherdie, you can be understood.