The rose that bloomed

 The rose that bloomed

A speck of pink in a bed of green-

The solitary bud blooming ,

Among bushes and twigs, thorns and weeds;

That one blossom clinging on to its petals,

Standing tall against the pouring rain and the lashing wind.

Occasionally would sit a lonely thrush on its branch

Singing a melody to the darkness of the night,

Or a queen bee will adorn its crown

For some nectar sweet and divine.

But, it is till it lasts-

Till the petals stand the test of time,

Maybe a weary poet composes a rhyme,

Or a lone musician strikes a chime,

Or a forlorn lover reminiscence his time.

And then one day, the petals lay

On the ground astray.

The thrush no longer sings, the music no longer rings-

And its essence trampled and trodden

Like a tune forgotten.

But somewhere it thrives ,

In the words of a diary jaded

Or the folds of a photograph faded.


-Devyashree

09.06.2025


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