A tiny rose bud at the dawn of its life
Ensconced, sheltered, protected from every strife,

What lay in its future it did not know,
Would there be scorching sun or lashing rains tomorrow?

Would it have a chance to unfurl its petals
Or would it become a victim of nature’s vicious battles?

A day would come when it would open its eyes
Feel the dew on its lips, the breeze in the skies

The buzz of bees, the banter of butterflies
It would learn of friends and foes in disguise

Young dreams would take the place of childhood frolic
Life would seem full of love, ecstasy and magic

Then the rose would be plucked –without any mercy
To beautify the homes of the rich and the fancy

Or in the hands of a bride, walking down the aisle Exchanged as sweet nothings of a lovestruck couple

It may adorn the silken tresses of pretty maidens
Or offered to the Gods as coronets and garlands

But old age would hobble in like a pitiful cripple Wrinkles and furrows on every petal

It would embrace death, like a beautiful wreath
Noble, selfless, magnanimous, till its last breath.