For every humbled flower in the street
One chained tale lies, that will wet the eyes,
Of the self-consoling traveler, whose feet
Crush it’s petals on a misstep’s guise
It’s scent, now no more alive and clinging,
Was once a teaser on the hand-cart that bloomed
Past early village roads, making the singing
Girls, hastily clad, to pause and resume.
When dry summer winds a part of it’s nature
Consumed, it sweat it’s own branch
Wishing a pitying garden to nurture
It’s colors from a plastic stance.
But when the garden of God replied,
With streams from hopeless places,
The cart went mad, with gravity flied,
And placed the flower on it’s folded faces.
Travelers who care, travelers who stare,
All know this sadly tale, this desolate plate
Where both rain and pain, gather near,
Is to be overleaped if journey can’t wait.