Rose’s Tale of Love

 

Autumn at its fullest, spreading over the trees,

Deciduous are shedding a fast their maturity,

Coming off their old torn clothes, they’d worn long,

Waiting for the spring to arrive again in their hearts,

Ah! What a sight of both severance and patience,

Unlike its sister, autumn is bare yet prides on its beauty,

 

Pride for a reason, hidden by many even the fall knew not,

There was a bush of thorns standing in solace,

Hiding its beloved, a beautiful Rose white like snow,

Velvety its body and delicate as dandelions puff,

 But her beauty was not something he could hide!

For long, and when she blossomed at her fullest,

 

Her mystical fragrance spread, on the wings of wind,

Bringing along many to witness the youthful white Rose,

She was praised, ah! She was praised for her beauty,

With every admiring compliment she got, she blushed,

And she blushed! Every time evolving red,

 Her petals from white, into the marvelous color of love,

The words of praising came and came, turning her red,

 

Ah! She had become this alluring red Rose, red like blood,

Alas! Her possessive lover the mighty bush of thorns,

Couldn’t control his anger, sightless in ego and pride,

Pricked her heart with his thorns, embracing her,

Hard in his barbed cloak, made her bled, turning her,

Again into a white Rose from red, her pain was visible,

Her white body was covered with strains of blood,

 

The white Rose loved the thorns more than herself,

She was born into it, so shall die into his arms,

Oh! So fragile her petals fell on earth, he saw,

With tearful eyes, and now are gone all the ones,

Who praised! For there was nothing that pleased their eyes,

The thorny bush now stands alone, aloof, amid the barrenness,

Holding Rose’s tale of love, his own love, in his weeping heart,

 

Gone are the breezes of autumn that kept flowing,

Gone are the humming birds, wishing to drink her nectar,

When she was alive, ah! When she was alive,

He understood never, what she brought was life,

Into that fall, when no flowers dared to blossom,

 Poor! He couldn’t keep her, protect her, and killed her,

 

With his gruesome act of possessiveness, he stands culprit,

All he has now are her dried petals; he keeps close to heart,

All he has are her dried petals; he keeps close to heart …..

 

*Monalisa Joshi*

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