Saturday, April 29, 2017

The orange rose


His everyday ritual,
The watering can, the walk to the pipe,
and the gentle spray - on an accepting plant.

She was barren still, months later.
Alive but barren.

He persisted, never giving up,
Hoping for the orange rose,
that he had seen grow in bouquets,
Behind those huge walls.

Perhaps a penance for his stealth,
he had but cut the branch in secret,
Hoping he had paid his price in his blood,
to the mother, and her thorn.

Perhaps, she had bled more,
losing an arm, he had assumed,
that she will grow back.
Maybe, she never did.

He continued to tend, hoping
the streak of orange will brighten his patch.
The orange he saw between the dark rain clouds - 
The orange of hope.

He had promised the first rose to his God,
The one who was lying in eternal slumber, 
Always there for his devotees.

He awaited his turn,
For his God had loftier prayers & wishes to grant.

One morning, she came of age.
A tiny bud, peeking out, almost missed. 

Like a hawk he watched and when the time was right, 
he reverentially picked, his offering, her first birth.

It was beauty beyond compare,
Meant to be prized,
Meant to be remembered,
Destined to be adored.

His legs carried him down familiar but forgotten paths,
he submitted his first offering.
Noticing his blood only after he gave away - 
Wondering if her first, was also her last.
Dismissing the thought as it rose.

There she rested in glory,
With the rest, but standing out.
Little did he know then,
that rest she did, but for a few minutes.

Given away later, in the eternal cycle of distribution,
Flowers, fruits, coconuts - given by one, given to another.

Adored by the devotee,
who adorned her hair,
the orange, standing out against the grey.
A temporary abode, 
again, for a few minutes, 
Before reaching the same mud that bore her,
plucked and thrown away, by a cranky toddler,
whose antics, were still adored.
Definitely more, than what lasted just a day.

Perhaps the most cruel and common thing,
Forgotten and trampled beauty,
Lost before her time,
Even if the time, was already brief,
Even if borne with love and out of love.

Maybe, those minutes, were the lifetime.

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