Bared and drooped are now my shrunken petals,
Cheerful exuberance faded since I forgot to blossom,
It’s me, the withered flower, dull and rotten.
Ready to fall on the green grass,
Yet I wish inside to get placed in the crystal shine vase,
But alas, all I see now is a repugnant stare for me,
Before I completely die, please pluck me.
I desperately miss my fellow mates,
Who joyfully they hug each other in the greeting garlands,
I hate myself at times,
Looking at my skin colour, which no more shines.
Don’t see me with those pair of hatred eyes,
My soul is still pure and fragile,
It’s me, the withered flower,
It’s me, the same old, once blossomed flower.
copyright aditi kochhar
(photographer: kuber mehrotra)
after reading this, it feels as if its your story and not the flower's. :-)
ReplyDelete(PS: my comment means that it's so well written, full of emotions and empathy. It feels as if the flower itself is speaking.)