A Flower’s Tale

Wasted Nights,
Wasted Days,
Oh my time!
Wasted away.

Sitting still,
Atop a hill.
Sitting quiet,
In a dress so white.

Beads of water upon my head,
Beads of water trickling down my face.
Glistening as it touches my foot,
Then lies glistening; on grass, on wood.

Then a cruel hand picks me off,
Then carries me in clasped hands, so gruff!
All while I’m screaming of pain,
Of hurt and grief; no longer sane.

Then put me in a shallow vase,
Filled with water, made of glass.
My crumbling carcass writhes in pain,
All my cries are but in vain.
I have nothing more to gain,
All my hopes have now been slain.

Slain before I could grow old,
Slain before I could be bold,
Slain before I could live life,
Slain before I went through strife.

Now while I wait; awaiting death,
Waiting for the sun to set,
To cast a shadow on my collapsed form;
Born in solitude; in solitude gone.

I think of all my wasted time,
Wasted Days and Wasted Nights.
I really did want to live life,
Yet I’ll be gone with no great fights.

By RAIMA GHOSH