By Vritti Seth
A tale I weave,
A tale so serene,
A tale so light,
Yet so heavy,
Consumed by fright.
A flower was planted,
A flower so bright,
It bloomed beautifully,
Truly a wonderful sight.
The cherry petals,
The golden blend,
The holly nature,
Eye-soothing, I comprehend.
The flower grew pretty,
The flower grew efficient,
Thus, It was happy,
Thus, It was content.
Until the dark night approached,
Until the back clouds emerged,
It rained so heavily,
And everything submerged.
The flower was uprooted now,
The flower was damaged,
The flower was murdered now,
The flower was perished.
The screams, the shouts,
Were suppressed in the storm,
The struggle, the endeavour,
Was therefore brutally torn.
What befell the rose so bright?
A secret known to every sight.
Yet none would speak, none would confess,
Ignoring guilt, their conscience.
The flower cried, so does the sky,
The flower died, so does the try,
But something lived and reside,
Much ashamed, we heaved a sigh,
Nothing was it called but a pure white lie.
“Oh God”, the flower then pleaded,” Tell me why,
This suffering, this endless cry?
For what offense, this bitter pain,
This life extinguished, lost in pain?”
Oh what a cry!
The heavens couldn’t pry,
The heavens wept with shame and sigh,
And The flower transformed, in bitter pain,
Felt crucified, a soul profane.
She continued,
The only sin I did was to born like this,
The form I have,
The form you give,
The form so serene,
The form so divine,
The form so bright,
Yet consumed by fright,
Oh what an irony,
Oh so chastised,
A form to be worshipped,
Was loathed and despised,
The gods themselves, in sorrow deep,
For such a fate, their tears they cried.
The almighty was abashed,
He thus apologised,
Not just for the dawned misery,
But the trickery of the mankind.
Had all been made with equal grace,
This tragedy would find no place,
The flower, pink and bright, would bloom,
Escaping darkness, banishing gloom.
If only he had seen the plight,
And chosen justice, pure and bright.
The Deadpool formed, the rose lay,
The blood stain, wouldn’t fade away,
The body gone, the soul in pain
A silent echo, a mournful strain.
The flower then planted,
Was now so gloomy,
Gone was the pink blush,
Gone was the golden blend,
Gone was the unending light,
Now it was a ghostly sight.
A tale I’ve spun, it’s true,
Was it sad? Was it new?
Was it light? Was it dark?
Did it leave a lasting mark?
They say, they screamed
The flower was plundered,
When asked the victim,
Alas! It was ... the wind? The rain? Or something far more sinister?
By Vritti Seth
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