Flower and a Verse in Grave

 

I have a flower in my book,

A flower paged, levelled, worded

Among words of my verses,

Once its petals smiled fragrance,

Time was when it scented,

My poetry written around,

Like an epitaph now;

Verses of an instant’s immortality,

Dropped which from time,

Form now flower’s eulogy.

Life will dry out of the flower,

With the passage of time,

Dry it will become,

To be crumbled to pieces,

My words meanwhile

Chant its immortality.

The flower among pages,

The words and the verses,

And the book from start to end,

Meaningless and unreal,

Except the page flowery;

Two pages and a flower:

Oh the flowery grave!

Which lies buried there,

The flower or the verse?

Which one is the eulogy,

The nature’s deflorating one,

Or the words from my pen?

Death seems in a puzzle there,

Start it should around the pointed stalk,

To sneak into compressed petals;

Or curve it should,

Around syllables, words, phrases.

A flower is there in my book!