The plucked flower: A series of poems

A few days ago, I came across a photo on tumblr, I sent it to some of my friends asking them what they think the picture means and surprisingly, all of them had different answers. I was wowed away. Based on the responses, I wrote a series of poems, based on the same picture, looked at differently, by different people.

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The withered flower on the window reminds me

Of the mistakes done, and the opportunities lost

But the flower has been plucked

And that cannot be undone



Beautiful they look and beautiful they seem

And we run towards the void beauties

Beauty fades away, we realize not soon

Screams the wrinkled, brown flower that you threw away this afternoon



Walking in the garden, a flower caught my eye

A glorious beauty bathed in the morning light

Plucked it away, the selfish me kept it for itself

Another part of me felt guilty and taped it back



If plants could speak,

Would you pluck that flower?

Would you cut that tree?

Would you kill that soul?

Would you watch someone die?

Things aren’t weak if they don’t have any say,

We aren’t strong if we burn them this way

 



I plucked a flower this morning for you,

To confess my love to you,

Now, heartbroken, I lay on my bed

And the flower, oh, I taped it back



When you like a flower, you just pluck it. But when you love a flower , you water it daily.

— Buddha

 

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