A Bud Flowers And Dies
I saw a small bud in the morning,
it was fresh and feeble,
it was so beautiful.
I walked out in the late morning,
It was still the same,
It was dainty and frail.
I peeped out in the afternoon,
It looked more or less the same,
Though slightly bigger than in the morn.
I made it again in the late afternoon,
It was there remarkable as ever,
It danced charming in the breeze.
I advanced towards it in the evening,
It had opened up elaborately,
Spreading its fragrance all over.
I rushed towards it the next morning,
Its petals looked withered,
It was drooping in a fold.
I retreated with a heavy heart,
Capitulating the growth in a day,
Finally reconciling to death also in a day.
It Is Transitory
Leaves bloom in a lovely green hue,
Thick and dense in a clasping cue,
Spreading a canopy of shade ,
Providing a glittering like jade,
Only to fall in days few.
The rain fed rivers flow gently,
Through the pebbles and moss gracefully,
Carrying with them alluvial soil across
Enriching the fields as they cross,
Only to get into the ocean mildly.
Man lives with pomp and merry,
Arrogant and towering over all in glory,
Dictating terms to everyone with serpentine authority,
Destroying one and all with diabolical impetuosity
Only to get interred in dust shortly
It is as explicit as ever,
That which is born cannot live forever,
That which takes place will fade
Be it beautiful or ugly,good or bad,
All would drop down in a wither.
A Blow ,A Strike, A Fall
A violent slash it was,
Thud ,thud it sounded,
Lo , there was a bang,
A loud squeak emanated,
A sharp shriek was heard,
There was a blast,
A fall ,a collapse resulted,
The beautiful tree came down,
It tumbled flat on the ground,
A sordid sight indeed!
A ghastly scenario really!
A terrible blow truly!
A vicious strike exactly!
Finally a miserable fall absolute.
That which stood royal an hour ago,
Lies down biting the dust poorly now,
That which yielded fruits and nuts,
Is a mound of rubbish at present,
That which gave shade and strength,
Relays a heap of broken twigs now,
That which was a cynosure to all eyes,
Seems like an eyesore now,
That which was a thing of beauty,
Looks like an empty distraction now,
Illustrating the transitoriness,
Underlining the fleeting of life,
Denoting the impermanence,
Yes, anything born has to die.
Moisture sets in the night,
Cooling the spaces light ,
Condensing and accumulating bright,
Over the lawns, cars and flowers overnight.
The pearl like dew sparkles ,
Like opague crystals,
Dancing to the whistles ,
Of the early dawn fills.
The droplet over a petal red,
Is a sensational thread,
Leaving us in a spell-bound led,
Capturing the thoughts in a stead.
The fixation is laden with enthusiasm,
As it holds a lot of realism,
Bringing to light the geniality of altruism,
Which falls hard on the existing scepticism.
Dew reflects the state of impermanence,
In a cryptic bubbling brief reference,
We , mortals, fail to comprehend the insurgence,
That reigns supreme over our feigned innocence.
Dew drops disappear in the late morn,
They fades away like a timid fawn,
Man too is a distinct born,
Destined to pass away in the forlorn.