On the occasion of marriage of a brave girl who fought back from death to get married. |
The Flower Has Wasted Not
The flower has wasted not
Lost none of its pristine glory Swaying in the sweet breeze of nostalgia Arouses it in all a very fond memory Hubris filled it is not
Gracefully giving in to the claims of time Genuflecting as if and as if in deference, to the silent winds The winds of change ushering in the passionate fragrance of the pollen grains The pollen has now shown its streak
Wedded to the stalk, the flower now wants its break Made restless by the beckonings of nature The flower now wants its mate The garden will never be the same
The milieu the same, never again Yet it trusts that its playful mate Will make it alright for it again Obligations now shift and shift for real
From parental to marital, from filial to nuptial Filling in it a sense of happy fear Drops of dew materializing in daylight(!) in parting from its stalk so dear But by jove, dew drops they are not
Bedecking not the exsquitely fragile petals Adorning the burning cheeks of our dear little girl Tears are they-pearly, lustrous and bejewelled! For a flower, it is not she
That was only a metaphor She is joy, she is life, she is beauty That is our fat little Kaumudi |